


and conscience calls the guilty to come home

by arturas



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: BDSM, Character Study, Dark, Dark Side Exile, Dark Side Influence, Extremely Dubious Consent, Falling to the Dark Side, Masochism, Minor Character Death, Nobody is a good person, Non-Consensual Touching, Nonbinary Exile, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sadism, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, and it bodes poorly for the galaxy, bad people fall in love too, how much am I meant to tag exactly, there's... a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 68,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arturas/pseuds/arturas
Summary: He'll die a man, not a monster. Even if he does die in a cage.Except then he's rescued, by someone arguably more monstrous than he ever was. And now it falls to Atton to fight for the scraps of his humanity that remain while trying to protect the very thing that drags him down.**WARNING: very dark fic. Individual warnings per-chapter.**
Relationships: The Jedi Exile & Atton "Jaq" Rand, The Jedi Exile/Atton "Jaq" Rand
Comments: 24
Kudos: 9





	1. EPISODE I: Peragus II, Citadel Station & Telos

**Author's Note:**

> You know how sometimes you might get an intrusive thought that catches you off-guard with its wrongness for the situation? Like you'll be walking past a store and suddenly your brain whispers _you should push that trolley into the window_ , or you'll be boiling water to cook pasta and something says _wonder what it'd feel like to put your hand in that_? 
> 
> That's kind of where this fic came from. Except - well - the Dark Side isn't about boiling water and plate-glass windows as much as it is far worse things, and it rapidly devolved from a short-ish introspection on how Atton went from arguing against the Dark Side pull on Citadel Station to embracing it wholesale further down the line to... well, _this_. A slow descent into darkness featuring two awful, terrible people in some kind of sick parody of love, from the very beginning until just after the end.
> 
> Without a shadow of a doubt this is the most fucked-up thing I've written in either fandom or non-fandom space. It has absolutely no relation to The Last to Know (my other, much more pleasant KOTOR fic featuring a male LS!Exile and fluffy humour). This one involves a non-binary DS!Exile, an Atton who is far more enraptured by his past than he wants to believe and a front-row seat into exploring how the Exile's influence gradually corrupts those around them. Any real hope of "good" ends after the first chapter. After that, it's just fighting against the slide to the darkness, and finding out just how deep Atton's sickness runs.
> 
> That's not to say it's an unhappy ending - far from it, at least from the character's perspectives - but there's graphic violence, sadism, masochism, unhealthy/unsafe BSDM, extremely dubious-consenst scenes, twisted fantasies, broken identities/senses of self, a lot of self-loathing, even more introspection and more than a little _really_ violent sex. If that isn't your kettle of fish then close this thing right now and go read The Last to Know instead because this first chapter is as light as this story gets. It's all downhill from here. Each chapter will have individual warnings to be safe.
> 
> As always - no beta, concrits loved, though anything along the lines of "how could you"/"WHY" is likely to be ignored because... honestly? I don't know why either, beyond it had to get out of my head somehow and it had too big a wordcount not to publish. I'd greatly appreciate any feedback about pacing/tonality as I haven't really written much in the way of explicit stuff before, let alone something as messed-up as the stuff in here.
> 
> I'm still not really sure how _this_ has ended up my first explicit work. Probably because it wasn't as distracting as the smut for The Last to Know...
> 
> Update: if you're here solely for the porn, skip to chapters 3, 5, 6 and 7 (eventually 9 as well).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The softest warnings in the whole story: only a little bit of mentioned violence, implied torture, instrusive thoughts and very vague mentions of (past) sadism. Definite mentions of Force-backed influence though - and some (accidental/unknowing/meta-level) misgendering.

_it burns into your heart_

_the darkness that you fear_

_you were never free_

_and you never realized_

~ "And We Run", Within Temptation

* * *

Honestly, Atton’s not too sure how he ended up here. It’s far from the first time he’s been in a holding cell. It’s not even the first time he’s been in a holding cell for carrying a forbidden weapon (he knows Peragus fuel is volatile but a _holdout blaster_? It wasn’t even modded for crying out loud). It is, however, the first time he’s apparently been _forgotten_ in a holding-cell.

Of all the ways he saw himself dying, something like this never even made the top ten.

The chrono at the control panel counts the minutes agonizingly slowly. Two days, thirteen hours, twenty-seven minutes since he last saw another sentient being. He’d give anything to be able to put a blaster round through the stupid thing.

He’s not thrilled about the idea of dying but it’s kind of overshadowed by how much he hates having to wait for it. It’s not that he’s never learned patience – that was damn near his specialty once upon a time – but back then there was at least a target, a goal, a purpose. An outcome. A finishing point. Some kind of signal that marked the end of the need to _wait_.

The chrono flickers as it updates the minute counter. Two days, thirteen hours, twenty-eight minutes since he last saw another sentient being.

He imagines the display exploding, imagines the shrapnel flying wide and wild, piercing metal and _clothing and skin_ and he reflexively tamps himself down hard. Not because he’s technically in public, not because he doesn’t have any idea if someone’s watching over the cameras somewhere – because he’s not Jaq anymore. He’s dehydrated, starving and almost certainly going to die but he is Atton, not Jaq. Just because he’s been left to die here doesn’t mean he can let himself return to – to _that_. She _died_ for him. The least he can do is make her death worth something. Not worthwhile – it’s _his_ life, after all – but worth _something_. He’ll die a man, not a monster. Even if he does die locked in a cage.

The chrono flickers again. Two days, thirteen hours, twenty-nine minutes since he last saw another sentient being.

He strongly considers screaming aloud.

* * *

Two days, fourteen hours, forty-seven minutes after he last saw another sentient being the holding-bay door slides open to reveal about the last thing he ever expected to see here: a human woman, with hair so blonde it’s basically white, clad in little more than a military-standard set of underwear.

She’s heavily armed and brandishing an oil-stained vibroblade in a manner that suggests impending violence too, but the underwear’s definitely the thing he noticed first. Apparently the dehydration’s really doing a number on his priorities.

Her hair’s still matted with drying kolto. There’s a battered and almost certainly stolen stealth field generator wrapped tightly around her hips; it looks like she’s using it as a makeshift holster for a pair of mining-grade blasters rather than for anything actually stealthy. Judging from the medpack needle-mark on her thigh and the light burns and scratches across her skin, said blasters were only recently liberated from an unfortunate droid or two. Her stance is combat-ready – weight on the balls of her feet, free hand near one of the holstered guns – and the vibroblade’s already running.

It’s only a very small exaggeration to say she’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in his life.

_Krif, I’m in trouble._

This thought is surprising for several reasons, mostly because he was in trouble long before she arrived. It’s not like he’s never been surprised by an armed half-naked woman before, either. Hell, he’d be lying to say he doesn’t like it (he’s always been a bit… warped, there, even before his time in the interrogation squads). But there’s something about her that’s different. He can’t put his finger on it – not with how dehydrated he is – but there’s something, some ridiculous meaningless _thing_ that tells him that even if she saves him, he’s still going to be in trouble, and lots of it. Maybe it’s the sense of impending violence. She _exudes_ violence.

She studies him intently. She’s not afraid of him. Hard to be, when he’s unarmed in a security cage and she’s out there with the beginnings of a one-woman armory, but he suspects her confidence isn’t just borne of their situation. There’s a presence about her, something he thinks he might’ve recognized in a different time of his life, and it’s alluring. Magnetic. Even if he were free and armed to the teeth she’d still be just as unafraid of him as she is now. It’s surprising how much he still enjoys it.

No; not enjoys it, _appreciates_ it, in a very strictly good-to-see-a-confident-face manner. Dehydration, isolation, adrenaline and skin-tight underwear are not a good combination for his self-control. But he’s not Jaq anymore, hasn’t been for years, and he will _not_ let himself return to that path again. If he’s not going to die a man, he’s going to _live_ a man.

So he smiles (it’s not exactly genuine but it certainly isn’t forced) and does what he does best: deal himself a mental hand of pazaak, play the harmless fool and make a damn good effort to knock her off-balance without actually antagonizing her. He doesn’t want that vibroblade at his throat, that blaster to his temple, not really. He doesn’t want her to treat him as a threat.

Belatedly, he’s forced to admit that there probably isn’t a thing he could say to _make_ her take him as a threat. Probably for the best. That might be a bit too tempting to take advantage of.

‘ _Nice_ outfit,’ he drawls, giving her an incredibly telegraphed once-over. Not that he’s having to work too hard to fake his appreciation. How long’s it been since his last trip to Nar Shaddaa, again? ‘What, you miners change regulation uniform while I’ve been in here?’

She doesn’t so much as blink as she keeps striding towards him. ‘You got a name? Or just a big mouth?’

He keeps his (current) first name and picks another surname on a whim. The one in the logs here is already a fake anyway but it never hurts to play it safe. ‘Atton. Atton Rand. Excuse me for not shaking hands; this field only causes mild electrical burns.’

She interrogates him with all the tact and subtlety of a charging rancor. It vaguely reminds him of a time in his life he’s worked hard to forget so he leans heavily into his ‘charming scoundrel’ persona and focuses on coming off as harmless as possible. Not that said persona had done much to prevent him getting locked up in here, he admits with irritation, but she’s definitely not with the local authorities. In fact, she seems to know even less about what’s going on around here than he does. Definitely a good thing, there.

It isn’t until she gets close enough for him to feel a whisper-faint pinpricking behind his eyes that he realizes just what he’s looking at. At least he was right about being in trouble, he thinks resignedly. ‘Hey, wait a minute – you’re that Jedi the miners were talking about! Where is everybody?’

Her scowl becomes almost murderous. ‘Stop playing dumb – you must have seen what took place.’

It’s not an admission but it’s also not a denial. Wonderful. He adds a second set of cards to his mental game, just in case she’s got a lightsaber holstered somewhere that he can’t see. He wouldn’t exactly be upset to find out she had one (nor to see exactly where she was keeping it) but old habits die hard and he does kind of still want to survive this. Just because she feels different to the Jedi he’s dealt with in the past doesn’t mean she’s not just as capable. For all he knows, she’s working just as hard to be underestimated as he is. ‘From my beautiful view in this security cage?’

As he barters for his freedom she simply stands there, free hand on her hip, watching him intently. She gives little away. For a while it legitimately looks like she might just leave him here to rot and he thinks that maybe she isn’t a Jedi after all. Eventually, though, when he points out the only way off this rock is to fly, she sighs heavily and strides over to the control console.

Two days, fourteen hours, fifty-five minutes after he last saw another _clothed_ sentient being he is set free. From that damned security cage, at least.

‘If you try and run, I’ll cut you down without a second thought,’ she warns, as he gulps water straight from the tap.

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Partly because there’s nowhere to run to but mostly because he has absolutely no desire to run away from her. Not yet. There’s no question she’s some kind of Force-user but “Jedi” is clearly not the full story and, despite the logical part of his brain screaming at him that this is a terrible idea, he kind of wants to see just where this all goes. It’s like she’s a human-shaped black hole, pulling him into something dark and dangerous as inexorably as a tractor beam, but as long as he stays just outside the event horizon he’ll still be able to get away once they’re in the clear.

Besides, it’s not like he has anything better to do right now, and she’s got all the weapons. He might be dehydrated and more than a little hungry but he’s not an idiot. If she wasn’t a Jedi he could almost definitely take her even with the weapons – but she’s (probably) a Jedi, he’s completely unarmed (they even took the knife hidden in his boot) and when push comes to shove, he actually doesn’t want to hurt her. Not unless she tries to hurt him, anyway.

It isn’t until she sets off to trek through the mining tunnels in search of a way off the administration level (after having half-heartedly tried to threaten him into going down himself first – if she’s a Jedi, she’s a pretty poor example) that he realizes he never even asked her name. So much for throwing her off-balance, huh? ‘Uh, not for nothing, but you never gave me your name.’

She snorts. ‘Live long enough to fly us off this rock and you might get it.’ Then she’s off, marching almost confidently enough to make him forget she’s still just in underwear.

Only almost. He’s still human.

Atton watches appreciatively until she’s out of sight. Then instead of doing the logical thing (tacking the commlink to a droid and hauling ass to find his own way to freedom, away from half-naked nameless Force users), he turns to the console and starts bringing up schematics, plans and scanner frequencies.

One good favour deserves another, right?

* * *

After the fuel containment level explodes her comm goes quiet for a while and he finds himself worrying. Like, _actually_ worrying, and not about something logical like the fact he’s still totally unarmed and stuck on a highly explosive mining facility filled with murderous droids at least one aggressive Force-user. No, he’s worrying about her, and whether she’s safe or not.

To say he’s annoyed by the realization is a mild understatement.

It’s stupid. He’s known her maybe an hour or two at best. He doesn’t know whether she’s a Jedi or an ex-Sith (or a _current_ Sith), how the hell she ended up on this rock or even something as basic as her name. He wants to chalk it up to it simply being adrenaline coupled with a months-long dry streak but the moment the sensors picked her up on the lower level he tried to switch from pazaak to re-imagining the outcome of their initial meeting and found that it didn’t work. Not the imagining, of course – that _certainly_ worked – but its use as a mental shield was practically nil. Fantastic distraction, awful barrier, and he’s not completely sure that he can chalk it up to his fading dehydration.

He _could_ have tried again, using someone else in her place. He probably should have, come to think of it, just to make sure it all still worked. Instead he returned to counting pazaak cards and continued trying to hail her commlink.

He’s always been good at lying. He’s _also_ always been good at finding out hidden truths and this one is barely surface-deep. Hopefully she’s good at neither or this escape is going to be even more awkward than it’s shaping up to be.

On principle he refuses to acknowledge the very realistic fear that she’ll go her own way once they escape this place, or the fact that he’s feeling _fear_ about that and not _relief_. He’s not sure he can quite lie his way out of that yet.

Not even two hours. It’s like he’s a damn teenager again. Or, worse, like a grown man who could have, _should_ have known better, and done something – anything – except for watch as the one who’d opened his eyes died, choking beneath his hands, saving his worthless life.

But that’s what he’s doing now. He’s making a difference. He’s making her death worthwhile. Assuming, of course, that this “Jedi” is telling the truth about having been away since the Mandalorian Wars (whatever _that_ means) and isn’t the next up-and-coming Revan.

It’s the thought that counts, right?

He deals a second hand, then a third, and tries the comm again.

* * *

He’s still counting cards when he hears the footsteps approaching and is at first confused as to why he can clearly hear two sets of feet running – it’s too many if it’s her, but too few if it’s a party from the _Harbinger_. Then she jogs into view (sadly wearing actual clothing now, though at least it’s still form-fitting) and he’s relieved, at least until he spots the corpse-like old woman jogging along behind her, clad in a _far_ too familiar style of robe.

‘What in space is going on?’ he exclaims. It’s not the curse he would normally use but he’s back in flyboy mode now. Atton; Atton Rand. Pilot. Good guy. Not a threat. ‘Who’s this? _Another_ Jedi? What, did you guys suddenly start breeding when I wasn’t looking?’

The old woman’s lip twitches. It’s not in amusement. The prickling behind his eyes intensifies and he starts running through the local hyperspace routes in his mind as well, just to be on the safe side.

To his surprise his erstwhile kind-of-rescuer shoves a blaster and an energy shield into his hands. ‘It’ll take too long to explain. We have to leave. _Now_.’

He’s not going to argue with that. Nor does he get the chance to; they’re quickly set upon by a heavily armed “protocol” droid and then, like it or lump it, the only way off the admin level is via the _Harbinger_ and its fuel line. It’s not the worst idea – just the only idea – and despite the ship being filled with cloaked Sith assassins they managed to nab the orbital drift charts without getting too badly mauled. There’s plenty of stuff free for the taking, too: medpacks, stimulants, a few bits of armour, some non-Peragus-approved weapons, even a few implants. And credits. Not a _lot_ of credits but it’s better than nothing.

He’s just starting to believe that maybe they’ll make it after all when cold, heavy footsteps sound from the corridor they just left and the pinpricking sensation intensifies until he can feel it in his teeth.

‘I have come for the Jedi,’ the Sith Lord hisses. The corridor lights around it flicker and darken.

On the upside it’s not after _him_. Not that that’s much of an improvement to the current situation. There’s not a single inch of skin that isn’t scarred or an open wound; he can’t even tell what species it is and only the fact that it’s shirtless suggests it might have once been a man.

It’s not Revan, at least, so that’s something. Well. It’s _probably_ not Revan.

As he debates the merits of attempting to grenade the monstrosity versus grabbing his would-be rescuer and running like hell, the old woman flourishes a vibroblade. ‘This battle is mine alone. I am not defenceless. He cannot kill what he cannot see and power has blinded him long ago. Run; I will be along shortly.’

There are a frankly disturbing number of implications in her words but far be it from him to look a gift fathier in the mouth.

The Jedi doesn’t hesitate either and they flee, like sane people, away from the walking man-shaped lump of scar tissue, deeper into the _Harbinger_. Whatever the old woman does to slow him (it?) down works because they’re left relatively unmolested – ignoring the remainder of the mining droids and something like thirty-odd Sith assassins – until they reach the barely-spaceworthy wreck identified as the _Ebon Hawk_. With a rolling trash compactor in tow, to boot.

Then with maybe five seconds to spare before they lift off, the pinpricks start up again, and Atton grits his teeth.

‘That’s the last of them for now; we’ve probably got half a minute or two before the gas clears and the next wave tries their luck,’ the Jedi says, as she pulls the underbelly turret back in. She glances warily at the old woman’s obviously missing hand and Atton briefly recalls the way she’d doubled over in pain for no reason midway through their fuel line run. Oh well – problems for later. Problems for _them_ for later. ‘Good thing you arrived now, or we would have left you.’

The old woman takes it in stride. ‘I have no intention of being left behind. Now… let us leave.’

‘A brilliant idea, your majesty,’ Atton mutters, as if he wasn’t already midway through the takeoff sequence. The moment the engines finish priming he flicks the ignition switch and miraculously the _Ebon Hawk_ lifts off in one piece. Ineffectual shots ring off the hull as the remaining assassins try to delay the inevitable.

He feels good, for all of the five seconds it takes to re-orient to the exit and clear the bay opening, but then the _Harbinger_ adds its quadlasers to the mix and things get much, much scarier. Especially when it becomes apparent that the Sith Lord – or whoever’s on board the _Harbinger_ – either doesn’t know about Peragian fuel or doesn’t care if the whole region goes nova. The _Ebon Hawk_ shakes with every missed shot as asteroids explode around them.

‘Can we jump to hyperspace?’ the Jedi barks, bracing herself against the back of his pilot’s chair.

‘Not with all these rocks around us. We’d enter hyperspace in pieces. We need to clear the field first. Problem is, we clear the field –’ he banks hard, then sends the ship into a tight loop to avoid the next salvo – ‘and they’ll have a clear shot at us.’ He doesn’t think he needs to spell out the results of _that_.

‘Fire on the asteroids, then. Maybe we can use the explosion to take them out.’

She’s insane. Certifiably insane. Can she not see how explosive even the small asteroids are? ‘It might take them out but it’ll _also_ take out the facility, the colony and maybe us as well.’ He spins the ship on its axis as another set of shots whizz past them. Ahead, the asteroid he’d been planning to use for cover turns into a cloud of flaming debris and he swears under his breath. The only rocks left nearby are big ones and he’s not sure the _Ebon_ _Hawk_ ’s battered frame will survive if one of them goes up while they’re behind it.

Atton begins punching in the only set of hyperspace coordinates available: Citadel Station, above Telos. He’s about seventy, eighty percent sure that they’re not going to make it but there’s not much else to be done.

‘Then we die here,’ the old woman snaps. ‘Choose now.’

‘Do it,’ the Jedi orders, without a second’s hesitation.

Atton does hesitate, but only briefly, then rakes the _Ebon Hawk_ ’s quadlasers across a promisingly large asteroid. It explodes beautifully, starting a chain-reaction of larger and larger booms until one catches the mining facility in its radius and Peragus II promptly disintegrates into Peragus III through near-infinity. Proximity alarms blare as he finishes programming the coordinates and he jumps them to safety as silent flames lick at their hull.

The _Harbinger_ doesn’t follow them.

It’s honestly not that much of a relief.

He’s done plenty of questionable things before. Hell, Atton Rand wasn’t even his _name_ until earlier today and he’s wanted in more than one system, by more than one military organization, for almost everything in the book. He’s killed dozens if not hundreds, tortured just as many and reveled in (almost) all of it.

This _is_ the first time he’s blown up a whole planet, though.

It should be more horrifying, he thinks; there’s no sense of gravitas in the hum of hyperspace. Though to be fair it wasn’t like there was anyone left on the facility but droids anyway. Probably. Maybe he’s too jaded. Or maybe it’s the opposite – maybe he’s so horrified he’s gone numb.

She claps a hand on his shoulder. ‘Good job.’ Casually, like he just aced his pilot’s exam. Like he didn’t just single-handedly create a brand-new asteroid field and absolutely ruin the supply of fuel to the sector.

It takes him longer than it should to realise she’s _proud_ of his actions.

It takes him all of five seconds to decide that if she’s proud of it, so is he, and he promptly washes his conscience clean in favour of failing to demand answers of his two cryptic passengers.

* * *

‘So,’ he says, a few hours later, after several interesting conversations (and more than one long-winded rumination from the old woman). ‘Think I could finally get your name now that I’ve flown you off that rock?’

She swirls a mug of caf idly as she inspects the voice-locked navicomputer. ‘Maybe. What’s it matter though?’

‘Beats calling you “Jedi”, “the Exile” or “hey, you”. Unless you’d prefer sweetheart, or beautiful, or –’

‘Exile will be just fine.’

That is entirely not the answer he was expecting. He swivels his chair to look at her, frowning. ‘I’ve heard some stupid names over the years but I find it hard to believe your parents named you _that_.’

‘I barely knew them anyway. It’s entirely possible.’

‘Come off it. What’s so bad about telling me your name?’ Hypocrisy, thy name is (not) Atton Rand.

She meets his gaze sternly. Now that they’re not fighting off legions of droids, assassins and droid assassins she’s a bit less aggressive than before. There’s still that undercurrent of promised violence, though, and her grip tightens on the mug as she turns bodily to face him. ‘It’s a dead name, for starters. The person that I used to be died a very, very long time ago and to continue using that name would be… not right. Not now. I haven’t put any thought or effort into selecting a new one and at this point I can’t say I’m feeling obliged to just to give you something to call me. I’m not a Jedi, not anymore, so “Exile” will be just fine.’ She raises her chin slightly in challenge. ‘Unless that’s a problem?’

Pilot, good-guy, not-a-threat Atton raises his palms placatingly. ‘If it’s not a problem for you, it’s not a problem for me. Guess we’ll just use my name for the Citadel Station docking register, huh?’

She smiles at that – the first proper smile he’s seen from her – and for the thousandth time since she stormed into that holding-room, Atton feels an uncomfortably familiar surge of warmth in his chest and wishes he’d never even _heard_ of Peragus.

* * *

Their brief detour to Citadel Station ends up being anything but. They’re arrested upon arrival and even his new kind-of-leader threatening to burn the station down herself doesn’t stop them from being “temporarily” imprisoned in the holding cells. One god-awful assassination attempt later they’re moved to “temporary” house arrest in an apartment that features actual beds. He’s almost happy about that until the old hag insists on quiet while she meditates – it’s only a single-room apartment, leaving him to watch holovids with subtitles or do nothing – and she’s a rotten influence as the Exile promptly decides to meditate too.

Goddamn Jedi. What’s so bad about beds that they’d rather sit on the floor?

After a few morbidly quiet hours Kreia stirs to use the facilities. He switches off the holo and intercepts her on her way back to the beds. ‘Explain something to me.’

She’s not willing to until she realizes he’s asking about the Exile – at which point she can barely shut up. Figures. At least it’s a change from being constantly insulted. Despite installing herself as the party’s resident cryptic mentor-type she seems to have bought his harmless flyboy act wholesale; he’s been called a fool, an imbecile, and about every variation thereof that exists over the last few days.

He only partially listens at first, preferring to watch her movements and subconscious actions instead – Jedi tend to be fairly good at masking the meaning of their words but much less so at masking their physical behaviours. He won’t lie, he’s still impressed at how well she handled losing a whole damn hand but because he’s nowhere near as stupid as she thinks he is he’s keeping a close eye on her. Nobody brings a vibroblade to a lightsaber duel with a Sith Lord and walks away only missing a single hand. She’s not like the Exile, radiating violence and aggression – she’s far subtler and more malicious. Darker. And she’s damn good at giving nothing away.

Then she confirms that the reason the Exile doesn’t seem like much of a Jedi is because upon said exile she was stripped of her connection to the Force, and it wasn’t until Peragus that anything returned of it. That’s when Atton starts actually listening. Annoyingly, it seems Kreia notices his interest because after telling him that she only tolerates his presence because he doesn’t need the Force to protect their charge, she shuts down the conversation before he can ask exactly _how_ such a disconnection works – or if there was any particular reason that she, of all the Jedi who went to war, was the one to be exiled.

He stays awake for a while longer after Kreia returns to her meditation, watching the Exile breathing slowly and deeply, and he thinks.

Until recently he didn’t even know that removing a connection to the Force was something that could be _done_ to a person. It’s definitely not something he ever pictured the pacifistic, dithering Jedi of the council inflicting on one of their own – though if she was always as aggressive as she is now it’s not quite as much of a stretch. He can’t even begin to imagine how such a process works. He’s surprised that he never heard of it in his time serving; he would’ve thought Revan would have loved to use something like that on the enemy Jedi.

Then again, he supposes, if Kreia’s telling the truth about how useless most Jedi are without their Force connection, it’s not like there’d have been any point to it. Either they would have converted with their powers intact or wound up dead anyway. Stripping their connection would have been a pointless sadism next to a blaster round to the skull. Not that he was _against_ pointless sadism, not back then, but even he would’ve had to admit the inefficiency of it all.

He knows she fought in the Mandalorian Wars. Like him, she must have followed Revan, though if she was exiled instead of killed he suspects it was only before the civil war that followed. Probably even before he deserted the first time. She looks nothing like any of the Jedi he remembers seeing but, well, it wasn’t like he made a habit of paying close attention to any of them before he went Sith – and if they’d crossed paths after that, he doubts they’d both still be alive. He’d probably have gotten her to fall but he has the sneaking suspicion she would have killed him eventually anyway, orders or not. She doesn’t seem like the type to forgive and forget.

Maybe there’s something to Kreia’s claim that there are no real coincidences when it comes to the Force.

More likely he’s just a stupidly lucky son-of-a-kath-hound with impeccably fortunate timing.

He watches her meditate for a little while longer and vows to put all of his training to use keeping her safe from Kreia’s machinations, whatever they may be. Or not be. And if that brings her into his arms, or better yet his pants, then he’s certainly not going to complain about it. He's been drifting aimlessly for years now - having a purpose again, no matter how vague, is gratifying. Rewarding.

Realistically he probably has a better chance with the old woman. It never hurts to hope a little though, right?

Atton falls asleep counting pazaak cards in his mind, in a better mood than he has been for a good long while.

Then the next morning, when they go to fetch their stuff, they’re informed that goddamn droid has taken the ship for a joyride and they’re stuck on the station in that kriffing one-room apartment for the foreseeable future.

His mood is not improved to learn that at least the TSF didn’t lose his jacket.

* * *

Their week-long stay on Citadel Station only serves to reinforce Atton’s suspicion that the Mandalorian Wars weren’t the only reason for the Exile’s – well, exile. Less than a day after the _Ebon Hawk_ ’s disappearance she’s already picked up three bounty jobs from the TSF, struck a deal with Czerka to mess with the Ithorians for eventual passage to Telos’ surface, begun working with the local branch of the Exchange _and_ found the time for some petty break-and-enter sojourns (only one of which ended in murder, which he feels is a pretty good ratio. It _was_ mildly concerning that he didn’t remember consciously drawing his blaster or choosing to fire at the apartment’s owner but, as she pointed out, it wasn’t like they had a choice anyway. He’s trying not to think too hard about it. He’d have felt it if she controlled him, wouldn’t he? He must have just been distracted).

He admits it’s possible that she used to be a far more Jedi-like person – that it’s the intervening decade roaming the Outer Rim that made her this way – but he kind of doubts it. Her confidence doesn’t seem like it was borne of need. She carries herself with an almost military bearing, giving orders instead of suggestions and making decisions based on potential rewards rather than things like morals or ethics. And when the orders fail (with or without the backing of her fledgling Force powers) she pulls her weapons without a second’s thought. She’s easy to follow, a natural leader; more than once he finds himself slipping into old service-habits. Once he nearly salutes her without thinking and has to play it off as fixing up his hair. Old habits die hard, it seems.

At least the local cantina has a few decent pazaak players. Playing against himself gets a bit boring after a while. Plus it’s a good way to launder their less-than-legitimately-gained credit chits. Once, the Exile prods him into a match against a Twi’lek slaver: one of the man’s dancing-girls against – to his horror – a full thousand of her credits.

‘Why didn’t you tell me the stakes _before_ he started dealing?’ Atton complains, after he’s narrowly taken the game three sets to two.

‘Because I didn’t think you had the thousand to spare but I _did_ think you’d have a better shot at beating him than I would. I’m rubbish with Republic rules.’ She turns to her newly-acquired dancer. Technically Atton’s newly-acquired dancer but, well, he’s not much less of a slave than the Twi’lek at this point. ‘Ramana, was it? You work for me now. Twenty percent’s yours and I’ll stop by for the rest of your earnings later.’

Correction: he’s _more_ of a slave than the Twi’lek. He’s not getting paid for any of this shit.

* * *

It’s only a few hours before they flee to the surface of Telos that Atton bites the bullet. He waits until Kreia’s occupied haggling over some medical supplies and then brings up the problem that’s been gnawing at his mind for the last few days. ‘Look, I know we’ve been through some rough stuff lately but you need to let it stop getting to you.’

She scowls at him. The dark hollows around her eyes deepen further, which he hadn’t thought possible. Her hair is white now – no trace of blonde remains – and if he looks closely, he can almost see the spiderwebs of her veins through increasingly pale and translucent skin. ‘If my appearance bothers you, then leave.’

He considers telling her that her appearance is still just as pleasant as it was on Peragus (if she removed her clothing again, anyway). Instead he opts for the real reason he’s a little worried: ‘Easy – I’m just pointing it out. If I’ve noticed, others are going to, and if you think Jedi are unpopular, imagine the reception a fallen Jedi’s going to get.’

‘I’m not a Jedi.’

‘So I’ve heard you tell everyone that asks. But I’ve heard about the Force and what it does to people who can’t control it… or themselves. It shows in everything you do – and in your face.’

She bares her teeth. Are her lips darkening, too? He can’t tell in this light. ‘I am in control, more than ever.’

He’s heard that line before. Usually right before somebody took a lightsaber out and started rampaging. He switches from hyperspace routes back to pazaak and tries to ignore fragmented memories worming their way up from the deep. ‘That’s what you think. Trust me, there’s a reason you’re changing; it’s because it’s corrupting you. I can feel it – everyone around you can feel it. Whatever that old hag’s doing to you, she’s dragging you down into whatever hole she crawled out of.’

The Exile’s gaze jumps to Kreia for a moment. ‘She has no influence over me. She is _my_ creature, not the other way around.’

_– he grabs a fistful of hair, drags the Jedi to her knees; she puts up no resistance. No fight. She only knows obedience now, tempered by his blades and fists and –_

Atton flinches, surprised by both the vividness of the memory and the rush of adrenaline that it brings him. He clenches his fists and almost mentally shouts as he counts cards in his head. ‘Well… you’re starting to get creases. I almost thought you were the old witch the other morning. I’m only saying this because there’s still a chance for you to stop before whatever darkness she brought on you eats you alive.’

The Exile tosses her head arrogantly. In the neon lights of the entertainment district her eyes shine almost blood-red; soon, he suspects, they’ll look that way even in the blackest void. ‘I am stronger than I have _ever_ been.’

He’s not winning this argument. It’s not surprising and he honestly didn’t think he would have; he’s not exactly practiced at _stopping_ a fall to the Dark Side. He tried, though. He had to. For his sake, not for hers. ‘All right, all right – I tried. But whatever’s consuming you… it’s affecting everyone around you, too. You may be strong enough to handle it –’

_The Jedi smiles up at him loosely. His gaze is fragmented, broken – he isn’t there anymore, not really. His body is here. His mind is long, long gone. He’s too broken to ever be of use in Revan’s army; Jaq couldn’t walk the line between keeping the man’s sanity intact and causing him to fall. A shame. There’s other uses for the weak here, though._

Atton digs his fingernails into his palms. Not hard enough to draw blood, just hard enough to ground himself. Live a man, he tells himself; live a man. Let her death have a purpose.

‘– but others may not.’

She gives him a cruel smile. ‘If they are not strong enough to handle it, then they have no business following me. Present company included.’

He flinches again. ‘I wasn’t –’

‘Shh.’ She reaches out, puts her palm on his cheek. The contact surprises him into silence. ‘You were. Don’t lie to me. It’s written on your face plain as starlight. It’s natural to fear what you don’t understand, but don’t run from it. Embrace it.’

He _does_ understand it, though, and it makes him fear it all the more.

* * *

The surface of Telos is a mess. They add to the chaos by crashing the Czerka-sponsored shuttle down in a clearing thankfully inside the shielded restoration zone. It’s not his fault, not really; they were shot down. Apparently the scientists here take their discoveries seriously.

By the time his head stops spinning enough for him to find his feet, the Exile is already up and talking with a Zabrak technician. At least Atton assumes he’s a technician; he’s not packing a blaster and he’s being followed around by a hovering remote. He’s also sporting a literally glowing prosthetic arm and wears a bulging toolbelt.

Atton can’t help but groan as he rolls over and stands up to join the conversation. ‘Feels like my last time on Telos.’

The Zabrak glances over to him. ‘Crashed a shuttle that time too?’

More like he brought down a shuttle and then went toe-to-toe with a particularly violent Jedi Sentinel, but he’s not about to admit it. ‘No; pazaak.’

‘That was _not_ the most pleasant landing I’ve endured,’ Kreia mutters. Atton’s only moderately disappointed that she survived. He’ll call it an improvement in their working relationship. ‘Next time, perhaps we should seek out a more reputable pilot.’

He scowls. ‘You’re _welcome_ , Kreia. You know, if I wasn’t such a crack pilot, we could have hit the shield wall or one of those rock faces instead.’

‘Yes; our current situation is a _vast_ improvement.’

‘Enough,’ the Exile says tersely. ‘We need to get out of here before Czerka’s mercs show up.’

The tech shakes his head. ‘They’re probably already on their way.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I had a little run-in that involved me ending up in a force cage. I managed to escape during an electrical malfunction.’ He raises his prosthetic arm with a slight smile. ‘So far, I’ve managed to outrun them.’

She eyes the arm and smirks. ‘Maybe we should leave you here, then.’

‘That’s cruel, General.’

Atton stiffens. _General_?

‘And anyways, you’ll need my help to find your ship. I have access to the shield network. I came hoping to repair whatever damage your shuttle took, but not even I can fix that wreck.’

He ignores the masked jab at his piloting skills and thinks, hard. So the Exile was a General in the Mandalorian Wars. From the snippets of conversation he’s overheard between the two Jedi he knows she was also at Malachor V, and by that stage of the war there weren’t that many generals left – not Jedi ones, at least. He was planetside in another system at the time so he doesn’t know what ships were still flying by then, or whose authority the final order came from, but there’s a sickening curl in his gut that says he might just be looking at them.

The shadows around her eyes seem much heavier all of a sudden. Maybe it’s not just Kreia’s influence dragging her down, after all.

Her gaze meets his and he blinks.

‘Let’s get going, then,’ she says – she _orders_ – and because he’s just a good-guy, not-a-threat flyboy, he jumps to obey.

* * *

After they’re shot down for the second time in twenty-four hours and shoved into yet _another_ set of security cages, Atton finds himself with a whole new set of reasons to hate Kreia. He’s already on edge from the fact that their new prison is staffed by a harem of nigh-identical women (they’re not _un_ attractive but even his wildest fantasies can’t come up with plausible scenarios for anything greater than triplets, even if he could get past the _nest of goddamn Jedi_ aspect of things). Then she takes his frustrated comment about being locked up yet again as an invitation to conversation. Worse, he’s distracted wondering where they took the Exile, and the hag manages to break through his mental defences.

‘Ah,’ she says, and the glee in her tone is infuriating and terrifying in equal measure. She knows. She knows _everything_.

‘You can’t tell her.’ He’s not stupid. Their party’s murdered a solid seventy-five, maybe eighty percent of the people they’ve met for reasons far pettier than even the mildest shit he’s done – if she finds out she’ll gut him without blinking. Worse, she’ll hate him when she does it, and he _hates_ that her hating him is somehow worse of an outcome than her killing him. ‘Please.’

Begging an old woman for mercy after trying to turn a Jedi away from the Dark Side. Is this really what he’s been reduced to?

_“You will **not** break me.”_

_“I already have,” Jaq points out, grinding his heel into her foot for good measure. The bones were broken lone ago and she screams hoarsely – her voice is almost done for, too. “So foolish. You could break out of these chains so easily if you just gave into that pain.”_

_“You will **not** break me.”_

_Jaq tilts her chin up, annoyed at his lack of progress. He knows a losing battle when he sees one. A token last effort, then, before he can stop worrying about things like permanent damage and keeping her alive: “You are weak. You will die here if you don’t break free. What good will that do your precious friends?”_

_“You will **not** break me.” She’s blindfolded, so he can’t see her eyes, but he’s confident that she’s not hearing anything he’s saying anymore. It’s the closest to meditating any Jedi gets when he’s working on them. He’s still annoyed, but only a little: this is where the fun really starts. _

_“Third time’s the charm,” he says, smiling, and picks up a heated scalpel._

He shakes his head frantically. Mental cards scatter to the winds. ‘I’m – I’m asking you. I don’t want her to –’

Kreia laughs. _Laughs_. ‘Think less of you? I hardly think that’s possible.’

 _You’re wrong,_ he wants to say, wants to _believe_ , but now more than ever he has to bite his tongue. She has all the cards right now. Worse, she’s probably at least halfway right.

‘Still,’ she says, that simpering, self-satisfied smirk still on her face, ‘there is no shame in what you ask. We all wage war with the past, and it leaves its scars. I will not speak of yours, “Atton”, but… there is a _price_ for such things.’

‘Name it.’ He keeps his tone as level as a sniper’s rifle, mentally steeling himself for what he’s going to have to do. For the first time in a very, very long time, he’s grateful for what he used to do for a living – his dignity was replaced by self-preservation instincts a long time ago and he fears he’s going to need every last one of them now.

Except… he doesn’t. For all her mind-reading and manipulation and clear-as-kriffing-daylight Dark Jedi-ness, all she wants is for him to do exactly what he’s already been doing: serve the Exile.

He still puts on a token show of resistance, of course (not entirely feigned – voluntary servitude is much more to his tastes than being blackmailed). But like a miracle it works and his secret is safe once more.

And then all he knows is a brief, splitting pain through his skull, and the next time he wakes it’s to a wonderful, terrifying, all-too-familiar voice: ‘What happened to Atton?’

‘He is only sleeping,’ Kreia lies. ‘It seems the journey here has fatigued him.’

He forces himself to his feet, forces himself to keep his expression neutral. It proves harder than expected when the Exile rounds on him and – after he plays off her concern by jokingly assuring her he was just resting up to rescue her – she catches him totally off guard by raising an eyebrow and saying, ‘I would have thought your Echani training would allow you to recover faster.’

Kreia rounds on him with a _very_ interested expression. Apparently she didn’t get as deep into his head as he thought. He’d be happier about that if the current line of questioning wasn’t aimed at him, or at the skills he learned in his previous life. ‘Echani training?’

‘When we met those Handmaidens at the entrance, you dropped into an Echani combat stance. Where’d you learn that?’

Behind the Exile, Bao-Dur raises his own eyebrows and folds his arms.

The day just gets better and better.

‘Oh, _that_.’ He waves his hands vaguely, trying to start up another pazaak hand over the throbbing in his skull. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but you wouldn’t believe how many fights you can prevent by just pretending to know that stuff. I mean, it doesn’t compare to wearing a lightsaber, but then again that doesn’t seem to help you much.’

Her eyes narrow. ‘I think you’re lying to me.’

Kreia gives a very faint smile.

His fingers itch to pull his blaster and put the old witch down right here and now.

– _he waits for the opening, waits for the lift of the lightsaber; his urge to open fire is almost overwhelming but **patience** is the key, patience brings the rewards, and **there** – _

His emotions spill over into a slightly less murderous outburst. ‘Yeah? So what? I don’t ask any questions about _your_ past, even though it’s nearly got us all killed about a dozen different times so far. Want to know why? It’s because I figure if you ever want to tell me something, you _will_ , so give me the same respect, all right?’

Something fiery glints in her eyes and for a moment he’s furious with himself; he’s blown it. Totally and completely blown it.

Except then she says, ‘I wasn’t interrogating you. You’d know if I was. I just wanted to know if you had any other useful skills. You’re a real… asset.’ It’s the closest to apologetic he’s heard her since they arrived on the planet – scratch that, since he first met her – and he’s probably reading _far_ too much into it but he could swear that her tone is almost _suggestive_. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You still look out of it.’

Now he’s got a headache _and_ he feels like an asshole. Joy.

‘Well – uh – I’m fine, really. Thanks. B-but you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m only good at shooting people, cracking wise and _pretending_ to know how to fight with my hands.’

She gives him one last penetrating look before turning away with a smirk. ‘Shame that landing ships in one piece isn’t on that list.’

Relief and irritation wash over him in equal measure. ‘We were _shot down_.’

‘Two ships, two crashes, and that’s just today.’

‘With a _rocket_!’

‘It was more likely to have been a propelled grenade,’ Bao-Dur corrects him. ‘A true rocket would have been far more destructive.’

Atton scowls. ‘Maybe I should just leave you to fly your own way off the planet, then.’

‘You can leave if you want,’ the Exile says. ‘There’s nothing keeping you here.’

Kreia shifts subtly, glancing over to him as if she’s bored, and his skull immediately begins to throb.

Instantly he’s back into harmless, flirty flyboy mode. ‘No! I mean – I was just complaining, you know? I’m with you until you’ve got less than half the galaxy after your head. We need to stick together. Who knows… I might be able to help you out of a tight spot at some point.’

She smiles at him.

His stomach jumps into his mouth.

And then Kreia ruins the moment with a dismissive, ‘Unless it requires a safe landing first.’


	2. EPISODE II: Nar Shaddaa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: violence, mentions of sadism, implied Force manipulations, implied sexual content, unknowing/meta-level misgendering, insincere flirting, blackmail and jaywalking. (Not really jaywalking but only because there's no signal-crossings on Nar Shaddaa.) 
> 
> Also a warning for length - this single chapter is easily the longest in the whole story, simply because Nar Shaddaa is where Atton's "critical" events take place.
> 
> (I am still bitter than I completely failed NaNoWriMo _again_ yet managed to write more than _fifty thousand words_ for this monstrosity of a story in under three weeks, over 10k of which were for this single chapter. God. Apparently that sans-serif writing hack works _far_ too well.)

The refugee sector of Nar Shaddaa is a strange and violent place so it’s no surprise that she takes to it like a Hutt to food. Within minutes of arriving Atton decides he’s better off not counting the bodies. Shortly after their arrival the _Ebon Hawk_ ’s assaulted by a Sith – an actual, living, breathing Miraluka, who manages to incapacitate everyone on the ship (him included) before the Exile returns from purchasing droid parts.

It’s kind of telling that not only does the Exile not murder the attacker in cold blood but that her first response is disappointment that she accidentally shattered the woman’s lightsaber in their fight.

Atton refrains from pointing out that she probably _wouldn’t_ have shattered it if she’d used anything except the Gamorrean war-axe she took off the Exchange guards on Citadel Station.

‘You’re really set on keeping her around?’ he asks, as the woman – Visas – slowly recovers in the medbay. ‘She’s like, half-suicidal already and she’s _clearly_ just trying to lure you back to her master.’ He almost adds “and she’s a _Sith”_ but, well, it’s not like there’s no other probable Sith in the party already. Or ex-Sith. Or not-Sith who are more Sith-like than most of the Dark Jedi Atton ever served with.

Sometimes he feels sorry for Bao-Dur.

‘As long as she obeys me, I couldn’t care less.’

‘And if she decides to attack us all again?’

‘Then kill her.’ She sounds almost bored. ‘I would have thought that was obvious. Now – are you any good with a hydrospanner? I found a processor that looks like it might fit that assassin droid in the cargo hold and could use a hand from someone with actual hands.’

Right now, though, he’s feeling more sorry for himself.

* * *

She’s decided their best bet at finding any Jedi on the planet is to attract the attention of the local Exchange branch. Given the Exchange only cares about credits and corpses he suspects it won’t be hard for her to do and steers the group towards the nearest cantina when asked for advice. They’ve already killed a few goons but again, it’s Nar Shaddaa, so more impressive means are required. Besides, the cantina in this area’s right next to the pazaak den, so at the very least he can make some credits.

The cantina’s a bit of a shithole, it always has been, but they’ve still got a decent stock of juma juice and the party arrives just in time to see a bunch of Twi’lek girls auditioning for a dancing gig. He would’ve been fine to just kick back and watch the show but once she hears it involves Vogga, she’s dragged them into yet another petty chore.

For such an obvious Sith, it still constantly surprises him how willing she is to stop and talk to every little nobody that crosses her path. Half the time she ends up _helping_ them, too. For a certain definition of “help” at least. By now Atton’s figured out that if there’s an opportunity for credits, violence, petty extortion or wanton murder, the chances of her being “helpful” are all but guaranteed.

Maybe “help” isn’t the right word.

Personally he’d prefer they kept a low profile. He does have to admit it was pretty funny watching those two bounty hunters jump in the pit though, even if it resulted in yet another lecture from the hag about psychotic urges and pointless cruelty.

So he’s still a bit salty about her crawling into his mind on Telos. What of it?

He’s jolted out of his partial reverie when a rather familiar war-axe is shoved roughly into his hands. ‘What –’

‘Hold that for me while I get _changed_ ,’ she hisses, giving the word a level of venom normally reserved for mentions of the Jedi Council.

Atton blinks. ‘Uh –’

‘Apparently “my life for yours” doesn’t translate to “I will do as you say” and everyone on the planet would rather gouge their own eyes out that see Kreia do it.’ She pauses for a moment and then, with an even deeper scowl, starts passing him the remainder of her weapons. ‘Fill up a flask with juma while you’re at it. I’m not doing this twice and it’ll be too noisy to kill the kath hounds.’

‘So we’re killing Vogga?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re just cleaning out his private vault. I’ll dance, you dose the kath hounds, then when they’re all asleep Bao-Dur can crack the locks and we’ll grab everything not nailed down.’

He obediently takes the weapons and watches her storm off to one of the back rooms, a small bundle underneath one arm. A non-lethal break-and-enter? It could almost count as personal growth for – wait. _Dance_?

‘The seer and I shall wait at the ship with the droid,’ Kreia announces, rather rudely interrupting his chain of thought. She sounds almost smug. ‘We don’t exactly fit the “bodyguard” image, you understand. Do _not_ let any harm come to the Exile.’

Atton rolls his eyes. Realistically speaking he’s probably going to have to work harder preventing the Exile from harming anyone else, even if he’s carrying all her weapons. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. We’ll be fine.’

Bao-Dur comes to join him at the bar as the remainder of the party heads out. ‘She really is protective of the General, isn’t she?’

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he mutters as he stashes the extra grenades. ‘Do me a favour and get the juma, will you? I’m short on hands here.’

His commlink chirps: ‘ _Is everything ready?_ ’

‘Just getting the juma now. All good in there?’

There’s a very pregnant pause. ‘ _Good is not the word I would use. Tell the Domo I’ll meet you at the back of this place; I’m not walking through the bar looking like this._ ’

Oh. Right. _Dancing_. He finds himself grinning. ‘Looking like what, exactly?’

She growls down the connection. ‘ _Watch it, Rand_.’

He directs the other two men to head for the back of the cantina. ‘I guess I’ll see soon enough, won’t I?’

He does. Oh boy, he _does_. It’s the first time he’s wished he had retinal implants instead of eyes; memory alone won’t do this view justice. The death-glare is a bit incongruous to the rest of her appearance, true, but he can work with it.

‘Let’s make this quick,’ she snarls, all but throwing her armour and clothing at Bao-Dur. She folds her arms across her chest; it’s not cold out here but then again, she’s showing a _lot_ more skin now and it’s not like that fabric is designed for warmth.

It takes him a little longer than it should (he wasn’t exactly focused on her face) to register that she’s not meeting any of their gazes. Not even to death-glare them. And while it’s normal for her to carry herself with an almost military bearing, she’s usually not quite so rigid – he could almost mistake her for a droid with how stiff and straight she’s standing.

No way. No _way_.

The Domo hesitates, perhaps a little taken aback by the heavy scarring across her skin, but she gestures with her hand (still refusing to meet his gaze) and he goes glassy-eyed. ‘We will go to Vogga now.’

She answers with a scowl and marches after him, trying to make the fabric move as little as possible.

Atton follows, disbelieving, as the full force of what he’s seeing hits him. This woman, who interrogated him wearing nothing but underwear, who destroyed nearly a battalion’s worth of droids in little more than a worn set of mining fatigues, who’s worn about a dozen different ill-fitting pieces of armour to murder a frankly scary number of people in the few weeks he’s known her, is actually _uncomfortable_ wearing the dancer’s outfit.

Uncomfortable. She of the indiscriminate murders, the exploded planet, the blackmail and thuggery and mind-bending, universe-altering powers… uncomfortable. Because of a few pieces of metal held together with sheer fabric. If it wasn’t for the fact her discomfort is making enjoying the view nearly impossible, he’d laugh.

At least it’s reassuring that he’s not fallen back to Jaq’s level even with her influence working against him. The random memories – the random _urges_ have been stronger of late, especially on this moon, and realizing that he can’t force himself to stop caring about her enough to simply enjoy the view is a welcome relief.

It’s almost ironic that her being an actual Jedi might have made his ogling easier. Or maybe it’s just a universal truth that feelings would get in the way no matter how hard he (or parts of him) would prefer they didn’t.

Either way, the walk from the cantina is far less enjoyable than it should be.

She’s stiff and silent for most of the journey to Vogga’s base, glaring down anyone who dares to raise eyes to her. Atton suspects that most don’t manage to make it to her face to see it. Fortunately, between her armed companions and the almost-literally-visible aura of wrath emanating from her, nobody dares to catcall or proposition her. It’s almost a shame; a beating or two probably would’ve calmed her down immensely, even if the Domo would’ve complained about getting blood on the costume.

‘Remind me,’ she finally mutters, as they’re led down the docks to Vogga’s rooms, ‘to make Visas clean out the _Hawk’s_ refresher filters with her damned _tongue_ for not doing this.’

Well – it’s something, right? ‘As long as you’re the one telling her. She’d skewer me.’

‘What do I keep you around for if not to do my scut-work?’ She adjusts the top again; it’s a little loose on her and metal isn’t exactly figure-hugging at the best of times.

He shrugs. He knows he’s poking a rancor and he’ll almost certainly pay for it once they’re clear but right now, there’s only one way he can think of to resolve the situation so he can get back to properly appreciating the view. Worst-case scenario, hopefully whatever’s in the vault is good enough to make her forget about shocking him once they’re out. Besides - when's he going to get another opportunity like this? ‘To have someone good-looking to fantasize about at night?’

‘Changed my mind. _You’re_ cleaning out the filter with your tongue now.’

‘Are you coming on to me?’

‘Don’t make me follow through, Rand.’

‘I’m not hearing a “no”.’

She snorts. She hasn’t broken stride yet; he’d be impressed if it were anyone but her. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s against the Jedi Code.’

‘Good thing you’re not a Jedi then, isn’t it?’

She doesn’t look at him but there’s a definite smirk on the edge of her lips. She’s walking far more smoothly now that she’s focused on trading barbs; her hips are swaying almost rhythmically, the fabric of her skirt shifting side-to-side to let neon light scatter across scarred flesh. Atton wishes the outfit was just a tiny bit smaller. ‘What gave it away?’

‘You frying your way through half the people we’ve fought. The countless bodies left in our wake. You telling almost everyone we meet that you explicitly aren’t a Jedi. Oh, and can’t forget the constant threats of death and dismemberment for smart-mouthing you – I have it on good authority that that’s definitely not Jedi-like.’ He pauses, wondering just how far to push things, before mentally shrugging and throwing caution to the winds. Her getting pissed at him is still less troubling than seeing her uncomfortable. Not to mention much more attractive. Maybe he does have a death wish after all. ‘You still haven’t said “no”.’

She waits until just before the Domo calls her forwards before muttering, ‘It definitely isn’t the _primary_ reason.’

Then she’s gone, striding forwards with just a _bit_ too much confidence, leaving him both somewhat pleased (it really is an excellent view now that she’s relaxed) and – once her words catch up to his brain, and _especially_ once she starts dancing – nearly choking on his own spit.

He takes it back; he’d prefer she was an actual Jedi. That way he’d at least _know_ he didn’t stand a chance.

Then he thinks of the conversation he had with Bao-Dur as they left Telos and he’s forced to glumly admit that it probably wouldn’t change a damn thing.

* * *

Later, as the party’s sneaking out of Vogga’s vault with a couple thousand credit’s worth of stolen goods, Atton makes sure to stealthily rescue the discarded costume on the way. He doubts there’ll ever be reason for her to wear it again but hope springs eternal. At the very least he can maybe make her choke on her juma if he leaves it on her bunk. Or maybe he’ll just hang it up in the cockpit for easy reference and see how long it takes before she burns it.

Then he considers the potential side-effects of Force Lightning on the _Ebon Hawk_ ’s already-battered main control panel. Or, more likely, on his skull.

Footlocker it is, then.

* * *

A few days later Atton finds himself back at the shithole cantina, swirling a cup of juma with a frown on his face. It’s not that the cup is filthy (it is), it’s not that the patrons are awful (they are); it’s the Exile. More specifically that she’s probably deep in the Jekk’Jekk Tarr by now, out of comm range, and with only the battered environmental suit from Peragus to keep her safe. Even though he knows she’s got antidotes, stims and a life-support kit on her she’s still on her own. She’s still walking into a trap with no backup and no means of getting backup.

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” she told him when he caught her at the entry to the docks. She’d sounded more reassuring than exasperated, which was nice, but she hadn’t protested when he gave her the emergency pack. Hadn’t said she wouldn’t need it, either, which worried him more than he let on.

It’s not that he doesn’t think she’s strong or capable. It’s just – well, _he_ killed Jedi once upon a time, and he killed Jedi stronger and better-equipped than her. The local Exchange goons might not be elite Sith assassins but there’s a lot of them. There’s a lot of them and he’s not there to protect her.

So he sits here, frowning at his juma, stomach churning.

Really, it’s not like she _needs_ him protecting her. Especially not since Bao-Dur helper her piece together a new lightsaber – a double-bladed one, like her old one, but a deep teal colour instead of silver. The Zabrak had claimed he couldn’t make it any other colour because they didn’t have any other crystals that fit the mount; Atton suspects that any crystals of a _redder_ hue were surreptitiously dropped off the edge of the landing pad while the Exile was out and about. Bao-Dur’s loyal – there’s no questioning that – but he’s unable to move past seeing her as the Jedi General she used to be, rather than the Sith she clearly is now.

Maybe that’s why he’s here instead of at the _Ebon Hawk_. Maybe this is his subconscious telling him it’s time to cut and run; to disappear on Nar Shaddaa again before she finds out the truth and takes her lightsaber to him. He’s a deserter, after all. It’s what he does. And running away from Dark Jedi is more common sense than anything else, really.

_– red light shines through the cracks in the door, he can hear the screams, **feel** the screams; he grits his teeth and counts pazaak again and again –_

Juma spills from the cup as his swirling abruptly halts.

Goddamn Jedi and their mind-fuckery.

The thing is, he’s been around way too many Jedi – both regular and Dark – to know when he’s being affected by the Force. He knows what it feels like when his thoughts are being poked and prodded, knows what it feels like to have his mental shields tested or broken, knows what it feels like to have them try and manipulate him. Whatever it is the Exile’s doing to him is unlike anything he’s ever felt before because it’s doesn’t feel like she’s _doing_ anything, and it worries him. A _lot_. Even more so because she doesn’t appear to be doing it deliberately – he’s seen her when she’s deliberately messing with someone’s thoughts, and he knows she’s not doing that to him.

If it was anyone else he’d tell them they’d been smoking spice. That it was clearly just their own hidden desires coming to the fore. That there was clearly no Force involved at all. Except it’s _him_ and he _knows_ how long and hard he’s worked to escape the spectre of his past and he _knows_ that these thoughts, these whispers, these _memories_ aren’t just coming up for the hell of it. His mind is too disciplined for that. Which leaves only the Exile, because he sure as shit hadn’t struggled with this before Citadel Station.

Maybe it's something to do with the after-effects of Malachor V - the _whatever_ it was that made the Council declare her a walking wound in the Force. Maybe it's the Force equivalent of the weapon that destroyed Malachor V. A personal-strength gravity vortex that turned her Force connection inside-out, dragging all those around her into her core.

Maybe it's just simply the fact that he was never a good person to begin with. She tends to create suffering and violence wherever she goes and - since wherever she goes, he goes - the whispers are simply the natural result of old memories being triggered fresh again. The logical outcome of not fully breaking old habits, not burying his old self quite deep enough.

He's always been a good liar. Shame he's too good at interrogation to fool himself very long.

A noise behind him interrupts his introspection and he reflexively glances over his shoulder. Two black-clad Twi’leks have just walked into the cantina; he smiles, before he notices the tell-tale bulging of concealed weapons and the way they ignore everyone else in the cantina but him.

Well, looks like he’s going to be sticking around a while yet.

He turns around properly, fixing a lecherous grin on his face. It’s not difficult to do – they’re definitely something he’d usually consider attractive – but it’s harder than it was the last time he was on this moon. Something else to blame on the Exile. ‘So… you two work here?’

The one on his left – the one with the slightly redder lekku and the slightly greyer skin, who he promptly dubs One – shifts her weight to jut her hip out. ‘<<We are dancers, yes.>>’

‘<<Slaves once, now no more,>>’ the second one adds. He dubs her Two.

He’s half tempted to just draw his weapons and get this over and done with. But they might just be here on recon, same as him (because he wasn’t really going to desert, he knows this), so instead he affects a surprised tone. ‘Yeah? What happened to your master?’

One smiles cruelly. ‘<<He was… made deceased. Now we serve no-one but ourselves.>>’

Two matches One’s pose – hip jutting out, hands drifting pleasantly around her torso. ‘<<And you, of course.>>’

Atton briefly considers seeing if he can get a neck massage out of them but decides against it. He’s pretty sure there’s no private rooms here and while he’s far from a prude, he’s not an exhibitionist and besides – there’s no guarantee that they’re any good at that anymore. Or that they won’t try to snap his neck in the middle of it.

‘<<Tell us… why have you come to the smuggler’s moon? Perhaps you are looking for something… perhaps us?>>’

He snorts. ‘No; no, I’m actually _not_ here for the Nar Shaddaa nightlife. Actually, to tell the truth I’m not sure why I’m here at all.’

Two cocks her head. ‘<<This moon… or this bar?>>’

'Both,' he says. He might as well get it off his chest, right? It’s not like they’re going to be telling anyone else. ‘It’s… there’s something about this woman that I’m travelling with. Something that gets under your skin, makes you stupid. I should be long gone but instead I’m here, waiting like a lost pet.’

‘<<You don’t need her,>>’ One says, hungrily.

Two steps forward eagerly. ‘<<We will take care of you… as long as you stay here until she returns. That is all we want.>>’

Atton snorts. ‘A couple weeks ago I might’ve taken you up on that offer but as much as I appreciate the attention, I’ll pass. I had you two pegged as assassins from the moment you walked in here – dancers don’t pack heat like that.’

One raises her eyesbrows. Two licks her lips.

He continues, ‘Didn’t realise so many bounty-hunters had turned their trade into murder. Guess you two are so desperate you’ll turn to _anything_ for a quick credit. Shame we didn’t meet earlier – I could’ve done with the company of a pair of schuttas like you.’

One scowls. ‘<<The beautiful exile… she goes to the Jekk’Jekk Tarr, and she will not return. Not for us. But she _may_ return for one like you.>>’

‘<<Submit,>>’ Two orders, ‘<<or we shall kill you and find someone else close to the exile and use _them_ as bait instead.>>’

Atton laughs aloud at that. The thought of the Exile coming for _any_ of them is, frankly, ridiculous (except for T3, and even then only because the damn droid is the only on who can work around the locked navicomputer). ‘Oh yeah? I’d like to see you try it.’

Two goes to snarl something pithy and One makes to draw a weapon; Atton ignores Two entirely and flings his juma juice straight into One’s face.

The cantina erupts.

He vaults over the bar before the first drop of juma’s even hit the ground, his blaster drawn before he lands. Over the chaos he hears the distinct sound of blades being drawn and shields being activated; he bumps the button on his own melee shields and, hoping that they’re as stupid as they’ve been acting so far, launches an ion grenade over the counter. Scattered blaster-fire is already starting to sound from the main area and he hopes that some of it’s headed for the Twin Suns.

He hears the grenade go off, a loud curse in Twi’leki, and then – footsteps. Towards the bar.

He keeps his blaster ready but draws a vibroknife in his offhand, too. Just to be ready.

When the first of the Twin Suns rounds the edge of the bar his blaster’s ready, at waist-height. He fires twice. To his surprise both shots hit home – he must’ve completely blown out her shield with the grenade – but his body reacts faster than his brain and he’s taken a swipe with his knife without even thinking.

She howls, the noise feral.

His heart begins to pound.

Atton twists his wrist and drives the butt of his blaster into her nose. Her head snaps back and she goes with it; he doesn’t stop to see if she’s dead or not before he’s running. His boots dig into her body like he’s running through sand. He doesn’t let it slow him down.

The other one’s still got her shield up, though it’s flickering, and she’s already charging at him as he rounds the bench. He gets a single shot off before she swings her blades at him. He lets the shield take the hit so he can lash out with his own knife – she’s not expecting something so small and he slips past her guard easily, tearing a long gash down her left arm.

She’s not an assassin for nothing, though, and she doesn’t drop the blade. Instead she bares her teeth – _grins_ at him – and pirouettes away, out of his reach but still within hers.

Atton grins back and puts three rounds into her chest. Her shields burn out and deactivate but he doesn’t keep firing. Instead he holsters his blaster and pulls out his emergency knife, the one he keeps in his boot, and closes in.

He was once an assassin, too. Just a lot better at his job than she is.

It’s been years since he’s had to go knife-to-sword with anyone but within seconds his muscle memory’s kicked in, like he never stopped fighting. She’s got a dancer’s grace but he has years and years of battle-honed Echani training and reflexes – it’s not even a close contest. By the time she’s burned his shield out he’s tagged her limbs, her body, even taken the tip off one of her lekku.

‘<< _Die_ ,>>’ she snarls. Her teeth are specked with blood, now; her movements slowing.

Atton blocks her swing with ease. The opening she leaves is massive, enough for him to slit her throat but he doesn’t. He opens up her collarbone instead and she almost shrieks. The next swing he dodges, dropping to one knee and gashing her thigh. Then her forearm. Her side. Her _cheek_. How many hits can she take before she goes down? How many wounds can he give her, how much _blood_ can he _take_ , _how loud will she **scream** –_

His hands are flecked with blood, none of it his. He hasn’t even bothered to refresh his shields. He’s toying with her – _playing_ with her – even though he _knows_ that their attack means the bounty-hunter truce is off and everyone will be gunning for them –

…what the _fuck_ is _wrong_ with him?

Snarling at himself as much as her, Atton pivots and kicks her in the gut. She goes flying backwards into what looks like a promising cantina brawl. He ignores the voices in his mind urging him to follow her – to hunt her, to _hurt_ her – and instead sprints for the doors. He runs until he can’t tell where the blaster-fire is coming from, until he’s lost in the back alleys of the entertainment promenade, and then he stops to breathe.

Just to breathe.

Nothing else.

He presses his forehead against the alleyway wall, breathing hard through clenched teeth. He doesn’t have time for this; she’s in danger. They’re all in danger. Especially if he’s not in control of himself. He can’t think that way, he mustn’t think that way. He **won’t** think that way. He won’t think of the blood, the tearing of her skin, her cries of pain. He won’t imagine his boot on her face. He won’t imagine her blade at his neck. He won’t remember that he could have killed her but he _didn’t_.

He is Atton. Atton Rand. Flyboy, good guy, not a threat. Not Jaq.

He takes one last deep breath then shoves himself away from the wall, taking off at a hard sprint for the _Ebon Hawk_. This moon’s going to be a bloodbath regardless of what he does now but the sooner he gets back, the sooner the rest of them will know, and the sooner the rest of them know the sooner they can grab the Exile and get the hell out of here.

(Somehow he knows it’s _never_ going to be that easy.)

* * *

Several days later the pair of them are walking down an alleyway somewhere out the back of the entertainment district, and Atton is calmer than he’s been since they first arrived on the moon. The Exchange is crippled. Half the bounty-hunters in the system are dead. Vogga is pleased with them, Goto’s yacht is no more than space-dust, and somewhere below the docks Zaz-Kai Ell’s corpse is slowly decaying into nothing. Things had been hairy – he’d almost lost her, more than once, and there’s now a psychotic Wookie onboard alongside not one but _two_ extra droids – but things are good now. Just a casual last-second supply run before they leave for Onderon.

It’s ostensibly mid-morning but it’s also Nar Shaddaa so it’s still gloomy and damp. Inebriated shouts and blaster pistol shots echo vaguely through the air, sounding both far away and very nearby, but that’s true of any slum in the galaxy and this place is one of the biggest. It’s nothing to worry about.

Then she slows, comes to a stop, and the dumpster behind them shifts to block them in.

For a second he thinks it’s an ambush. They’ve killed what feels like a city’s worth of people already but there’s never a shortage of idiots after fast credits; it wouldn’t be the first time (and almost certainly won’t be the last) that some punk with a gun tries to bite off more than they can chew. But then she turns to him, with a very calculating look in her eyes, and Atton’s stomach drops.

‘I met someone here,’ she says calmly, ‘who says that he knows you.’

It figures that this was a trap. This whole damn moon’s been nothing but a trap. Dancing for Vogga, the Exchange meeting, the stealing of freighter codes, the assault on Goto’s yacht – and then today he didn’t even think twice before acquiescing to her request that he accompany her to pick up some last-minute supplies.

‘Yeah?’ He tries to keep his own tone level but he’s already on the defensive and it shows. ‘That’s a surprise. Did he say I owed him credits, too?’

She folds her arms. ‘He says you’re not “Atton” at all. That you showed up on Nar Shaddaa during the Jedi Civil War.’

He should’ve known it was a trap. He should have refused, should have stayed in the cockpit running pre-flight checks. It wouldn’t have stopped this conversation from happening but at least it wouldn’t be happening _here_ , in this alley, blocked in by a dumpster like a cornered womp-rat.

He scowls and folds his arms, mirroring her. ‘I’m as Atton as Atton will ever be. Whoever your trusted informant is, he’s right; I did show up here during the Jedi Civil War, along with a lot of _other_ refugees.’

‘Anything you want to tell me?’

‘No, because you’re asking about it. If I wanted to tell you anything, I would have come and told you. Anything else, or are we done here?’

She smiles, dangerously. The skin on the back of his neck begins to prickle. ‘We’re nowhere _near_ done.’

He snorts. ‘Is this an interrogation? If so, you’re terrible at it, especially for an ex-Jedi… or whatever the hell you are these days. Why don’t you just crawl in my head and try to dig out whatever you’re looking for instead of asking about it?’

‘Maybe I will, if you don’t tell me. Maybe I’ll go past the pazaak this time.’

‘You –’ He’s moving towards her before he can stop himself. Her smile hardens into a smirk when he pauses mid-stride, still several steps away from her, an ugly snarl on his face as he halts his charge.

Man, not a monster. Man, not a monster. Kreia started the mind-reading thing; she’s just trying to get a rise out of him. It’s not her fault it’s working.

Atton raises his fists and snarls, ‘You know what? I helped you get off Peragus. If I hadn’t been there you wouldn’t have even gotten off the administration level. I organized that rescue mission to save you from Goto’s yacht. And today I came to help you get some last-minute supplies. I’m _trying_ to help you. I don’t know why I’m bothering.’

‘I don’t know either; I never asked for your help.’ She flicks her wrist and he’s shoved backwards from an invisible blow across his face. Not hard, not enough to knock him off his feet or slam him into the wall, but enough that it splits his lip and sends him stumbling down to one knee. A warning; nothing more. ‘Now: I want to know where you were before you arrived on Nar Shaddaa.’

Atton wipes his mouth, furious nearly beyond reason. Not at the blow – he’s surprised she didn’t hit him the moment he made for her – but at the dismissive hypocrisy she’s showing him. It almost hurts. He’s come to think of her as so utterly not a Jedi that it almost _hurts_ to see that same self-assured arrogance coming from her. ‘There’s a lot I want to know about you too, but you know how many times I’ve asked? Not _once_. I heard about Dxun. Everyone has. I heard about Serocco, and I sure as hell know about Malachor V. I want to know just how many of those atrocities were at your hands, “General” – but I haven’t asked you _once_. What makes you think you’ve got the right to interrogate me on anything? You’ve got plenty of lives to answer for yourself. All you Jedi do.’

Her eyes narrow. Her foul mood is leaking into the Force around them like blood in water; it’s stoking his own nascent fury, setting his very teeth on edge. ‘If you’ve got a question, then ask.’

He’s out to hurt her now. ‘How did you even _live_ with yourself after Malachor? Is that why you went back to the Jedi Council? Hoping they’d kill you? But Jedi _don’t_ kill, do they? At least not their prisoners. Maybe that’s what you were counting on when you went back in chains. You got off easy. You _lived_. Exiled, brushed under the cargo ramp, another dirty little Jedi secret. You know what? All those Jedi at Malachor – they _deserved_ to die. Each and every last one of them.’

It’s her turn to wear an ugly snarl; her lips twist in fury as she spits, ‘I went back of my own volition.’

‘Sure you did. Just like you wiped out Malachor on your own volition. Just like Dxun, just like Serocco. All for the greater good, right? Stop the Mandalorians, save innocent lives, kill millions in the process. It’s all just more Jedi hypocrisy: every act of kindness or charity they do, you can drag it squirming out into the light and see it for what it is. The galaxy’s better off without them.’

‘On _that_ point, we’re in agreement.’ She takes a step towards him, using the Force to knock out his footing so that he’s now truly on his knees. ‘I’m only going to ask one more time, Atton. If we’re travelling together, I want to know about your past.’

‘Maybe we won’t be for much longer,’ he fires back. ‘I’m a deserter. It’s what I _do_.’ He realizes what he’s said a few seconds too late to do anything about it.

The aura of fury fades sharply, so sharply that for a moment he’s almost stunned. She looks very briefly smug before she ploughs ahead again. ‘Which war?’

He could only give her half the story. He could tell her the first part, the part before everything changed. It wouldn’t be a lie. But his stomach is churning in miserable anger from the Force-aura whiplash, he can taste the blood welling from his newly split lip and when push comes to shove… maybe it’s better this way. She’ll kill him for not talking but she’ll kill him for the truth just as much. At least this way someone _knows_. And at least it’ll be her that ends it all.

So he wipes his lip again and, through gritted teeth, answers: ‘Both of them.’

‘Why the hell,’ she says, in a tone implying he’s the stupidest man on the planet, ‘would you think I care that you deserted both sides?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you were a General in the Republic?’

‘ _Were_ , past-tense. Not present.’ She tosses her hair arrogantly. ‘I left the war too.’

‘Once you _ended_ it. You left the war a hero. You went back to that sham trial, fucked off to the Outer Rim and lived happily ever after while the rest of us were left defending something we couldn’t believe in anymore.’

Her nostrils flare as the realisation hits home. ‘So you became Sith instead.’

‘Better than being an exiled Jedi,’ he snaps. ‘If that’s what you want call knowing when to fight and when to kill then yeah, I was a Sith. Could’ve called us gizka for all it mattered. We were loyal to Revan and that’s what mattered. He saved us. So when the Jedi who watched us all die decided to get off their asses and start fighting him, we fought back.’

‘You fought Jedi.’ She actually snorts. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Yeah, it kind of is. That’s why I was so good at it. I wasn’t fighting Jedi; I was killing them.’ Belatedly he admits she probably doesn’t differentiate between “fighting” and “killing”, but he does. Did. No; _does_. ‘People think it’s hard but it’s not, not if you’re smart about it. No blasters. No getting close. _Especially_ no going after them directly. Drug them, gas them, go for their allies to distract them, then use that to make them lose control – to torture them.’ He can feel his pulse rising and he clenches his fists, trying vainly to drag his mind back to pazaak, but the count is lost to long-repressed memories clawing their way back to his mind’s eye. ‘I was good at it. _Really_ good at it. Not just the killing but the torturing – making them fall. Making them see our side of it, making them _realise_ – it was the best.’

_He twists the blade. Skin spirals around it like a whirlpool. The scream is expected, anticipated. The stench of fear – blood, piss, adrenaline, fresh and dried in equal measure – hangs thick in the air._

He clenches his fist tight enough to dig his nails into his palms.

Draw five, play the plus-two, stand for nothing, fall at his own damn hands.

‘That’s hard to believe.’

‘Yeah? Well maybe you’ll believe this – the easiest way to do it is to go after the padawan first. The younger the better. The master will move to protect the student, making them predictable, and if you can get the kid to start screaming the bond between them will mess up the master’s head better than any stab wound.’

_He lifts his hand, changes his leverage, and the child shrieks as Jaq shatters its shoulder. Across the way the Jedi buckles. Too well-trained to scream. Too well-trained to run. Not well-trained enough to end the child’s suffering and save them both._

A shiver runs down his spine - the ghost of something he hasn't permitted himself to feel in years. ‘Got anything else?’ he asks, too roughly. ‘That’s just a small part of my arsenal.’

She hasn’t turned away yet. She isn’t disgusted like she should be, isn’t horrified like she should be. There’s no way she can’t see what this conversation, these _memories_ are doing to him – to him, Atton, not even to Jaq, to _Atton_.

Why doesn’t she hate him yet? Why isn’t she pushing him away? Why isn’t she _killing_ him for what he did, for what he was – what he _is_?

Her eyes narrow. Focussed. ‘And if there isn’t a whiny little padawan around?’

‘Start shooting innocents,’ he responds, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Once upon a time it was. ‘Not to kill, but enough that they’ll die if the Jedi doesn’t do something to save them. If that doesn’t do it you can sometimes work with the lightsaber form. Makashi’s easiest, if they’re stupid enough to use it; fire full-auto and then drop them once they’re exposed. Otherwise use mines. Lots of them. Gas is best; contact, not inhaled. Or gas grenades if you weren’t smart enough to set up ahead of time – good ones, with the magnetic lock targetters, so they can’t shove them back in your face.’

Her lips curl into a smile. It’s not sadistic, not sardonic – disbelieving, maybe. Not disgusted, _still_. ‘You make it sound easy. It’s not so simple to get that close to a Jedi.’

He’s within striking distance of her now but he doesn’t point that out; this is different. He might have six, seven different plans for how to get his blade to her throat at any given time but this is _different_. She is not his target. She is his prize.

No. Not a _prize_. Never a _prize_. He’s a man, not a monster, remember?

‘I taught myself… techniques. It’s hard for Jedi to tell what you’re really thinking if you throw up walls of strong emotions and feelings. Lust. Impatience. Cowardice. Numbers work too, hyperspace routes, anything boring and repetitive, but baser instincts make them move on quicker. Most of the time they don’t get beyond the surface feelings to really see what’s there. And I was good at that – throwing up walls – and my superiors knew it. Sometimes the Force-users on our side wouldn’t even know I was there.’

‘So that’s why you act the way you do? The bluntness, the glibness… that’s all walls?’

He shrugs. Not carelessly, not helplessly. Habit, maybe. ‘Part of it. Maybe that’s always been me. It’s hard to tell sometimes… I haven’t known who I am for years.’

_He presses his forehead against the alleyway wall, breathing hard, as he makes his way back to the Ebon Hawk from a cantina drink gone wrong. **Very** wrong. He came out on top, of course, even though it was two-on-one, but even two-on-one he could’ve been cleaner. Could’ve been more controlled. Could have not made them suffer the way he did._

_He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. He doesn’t have time for this; she’s in danger. They’re all in danger. Especially if he’s not in control of himself. He can’t think that way, he mustn’t think that way. **Don’t** think that way. Don’t think of the blood, the tearing of skin, her cries of pain. Don’t imagine your boot on her face. Don’t imagine her blade at your neck. Don’t remember that you could have killed her but didn’t. You are Atton. Atton Rand. Flyboy, good guy, not a threat. Not Jaq._

He was always Jaq. Even when he was Atton, he was always Jaq. Or maybe Jaq was always Atton. He doesn’t know anymore.

‘You wouldn’t understand. You left at the Mandalorian Wars; you don’t know anything that was going on behind the scenes of the Jedi Civil War. Revan knew – he knew that the real battle, the _true_ battle, the only one that mattered, would be fought between the Jedi. Whoever had the best – the _strongest_ Jedi would win. Kill them, convert them, it didn’t matter. So Revan trained up his elite Sith units into… I guess assassination squads would be how you’d describe us. Interrogators, maybe. Same difference in the end. Our duty was to go out and capture enemy Jedi.’

‘Not kill?’

‘Last resort. Capture first. Make them fall, convert them – that was our goal. He wanted them to see his side of things, the Sith teachings. He wanted to break them. Then, once they were broken, he would make them join him.’

_“You.”_

_It takes him a moment to place the face. The bruising is gone, the blood cleaned up, the eyes much darker, the skin more charred – oh. Jaq cricks his neck. Yes; he remembers this one. She’d been fun. Fought pretty hard but like the rest, she’d broken in the end. “Me?”_

_“You.” She reaches out for his collar but her hand stops, frozen, before it can grasp. Her fingers twitch. Some wounds leave scars that can’t be seen. Her lip curls into a sneer – yes, definitely the same one; he broke that tooth himself. “I,” she finally says, as she lowers her hand back down, “should thank you.”_

_Jaq smiles, then smiles wider as she flinches, an expression of self-disgust rippling across her features. “I’m told that a lot. Have any ideas how?”_

He’s pulled back to the present as she folds her arms, cautious now. On guard. Not disgusted, but it’s better than apathy. ‘That doesn’t sound like something one could just… walk away from.’

He’s ready for it, because he somehow knew it was coming, and catches the memory before it can resolve itself properly. Pazaak doesn’t work – not for that – but hyperspace routes are smooth. Continuous. Jump to jump to jump, corewards then rimwards and back again. ‘One day I decided not to do it anymore, so I left. Ended up on Nar Shaddaa.’ It’s a pointless addition and almost entirely a lie, but he says it anyway: ‘Became someone else.’

Her gaze tracks to his always-gloved hands, to his worn jacket, to the faded scars beneath his stubble. ‘Do you think I care that you killed Jedi?’

‘Given that you’ve killed more than I ever did? I doubted it. I… I didn’t really care if you did or not.’ The admission surprises him. ‘I’ve only been with you a short time but I know that as soon as somebody signs on with you, they haven’t got long to live. You’ve got history. Anyone that travels with you doesn’t. Maybe I was just tired of keeping it in… maybe I just wanted you to know in case a story needs to be set straight, somewhere down the line.’

Or maybe he just wanted her to see the ugly thing he truly is. To see him, to know him, and to turn away in disgust like she should have at the start. To kill him or to set him free. To end his suffering, one way or another.

Atton shakes his head, drops his gaze to stare at the ground. ‘Maybe you understand.’

‘Maybe. Maybe I still don’t get why you’d just up and leave it all behind you. The Sith weren’t any kinder to deserters than the Republic and freelance torturing gigs are few and far between.’

He’s held his tongue for years on this. Not a single living soul knows the reason and he swore he’d die before he ever told anyone the truth. But she’s not killed him yet and she’s heard him talk about killing _children_. Maybe the full story will be enough to push her over the edge – to make her realise just what she’s had onboard her ship all this time, to make her pull out that recently-completed lightsaber and leave his body to rot in the damp alleyways of this moon.

Or maybe it won’t be. He doesn’t know what the better outcome is anymore.

‘There was,’ he eventually says, hyperspace routes fading in his head, ‘a woman. A Jedi. She… gave her life for mine.’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘A mission?’

‘No. She sought me out. Said she’d come to save me. She was lying, of course – or I think she was. Doesn’t really matter. She told me enough truth to get my attention.’

‘Truth about what?’

‘What Revan was doing in the Unknown Regions.’ A faint twinge comes from his palms as his nails break the skin. He can feel the blood begin to well up, staining his fingertips a warm, salty red, and he fights the urge to bring his palm to his mouth for a taste. He licks his broken lip instead. It’s already scabbed over. ‘She said that the Jedi we captured were sent to a facility out there, a place designed to break them – even further than we already had. And that anyone in Revan’s service that showed even the smallest ability with the Force was sent there too, to turn them, to make them into something else. Dark Jedi, or assassins trained to kill Jedi. She said –’

_“You need to run,” she croaks, her throat dry from dehydration and screaming. “If you stay, you will die.”_

_“Funny; that’s exactly what I was thinking about you. Except for the little fact that you **can’t** run.” He made sure of that from the start; her Achilles are severed and at least one of her ankles is shattered as well._

_“No. Not like me. You – you will become a monster.”_

_Jaq laughs. “Newsflash, sweetheart; you’re a few years too late on that account.”_

_She makes a rasping, broken noise. It takes him a second or two to realise that she’s laughing too. “You… you think that this is monstrous? You think that **this** is anything more than petty sadism? You know **nothing** of the power of the Dark Side.”_

_The room feels a little smaller, a little colder with her words. He holds the vibroknife a little tighter when he goes in for the next cut._

‘– she said it was going to happen to me. That I had the Force inside me, that’s why I was so good at capturing Jedi. Why I was so good at _killing_ Jedi. And that when the Sith learned of it, there’d be no escape, no turning back. I’d be an instrument of Revan forever. I’d heard talk in the rank – troops vanishing, sometimes for good. I knew what she was implying but I didn’t believe her – didn’t _want_ to believe her.’

‘So what happened, if you didn’t believe her?’

He doesn’t close his eyes. He doesn’t need to, not for this. He could never forget this. The black walls of the chamber fade in over the grey concrete of the alleyway and there, right there, where she always is – ‘I did what I did with all Jedi. I hurt her – I hurt her a lot. And then, right when I thought she couldn’t take anymore –’

_It burns. It burns so much. His core is a supernova, his very soul exploding outwards at the speed of light. It burns and it hurts and for the first time in his life he **sees** it. _

_“You see?” she whispers, blood leaking from her mouth. “Do you feel it now?”_

_He does. He can feel the agony he inflicted on her, a raw and gaping scream in his psyche. He can feel the far-off echoes of his deeds, pain that traverses time and space to torment her companions and colleagues. He can feel the edge of the very universe itself and at the same time he can feel his own sick, twisted, broken core, doubled in on itself and pulsing like a dying star._

_Jaq takes a step back and covers the chamber floor in bile._

He can almost taste the bile in his mouth again. It’s salty and warm and – it’s the blood on his palm, now spread across his lips, his tongue. He tries to force his hand back to his side but gives up in seconds; she’s seen him, now, and it’s his own blood anyway. ‘She showed me the Force,’ he mutters into his palm, ‘in my head. I felt everything she felt, heard just an echo of what the Force was, saw just a glimpse of how what I was doing… I think I loved her, kind of, but not the normal kind of love. The kind where you’re willing to give up everything for someone you don’t even know.’

The Exile sneers, ‘The kind that the Jedi preach. Jedi _lies_.’

He barely hears her. He’s too deep in the memory now. He can see the Jedi’s skin tearing, her throat collapsing under his fingers, the light fading from her eyes. ‘I killed her. I killed her for crawling in my head, for showing me that. At the start my only thought was that I’d love to kill her. In the end I killed her because I loved her. She sacrificed herself to keep my secret – she wasted her life to save me. _Me_. And I felt her die at the end. I’d killed Jedi before – many times before – but I’d never felt it like that, on the receiving end. And after that I couldn’t _stop_ feeling things. Before then lust, guilt, impatience, it was all just orchestrated to get close – now it all just kept tumbling out, uncontrolled – and I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing. So I left. I fled with the displaced war veterans to Nar Shaddaa and lost myself there, until the war came to an end. I wanted no more of Jedi, Dark Jedi, or the Force. I just wanted to be left alone. And then…then I met you on Peragus. And I thought that maybe, maybe she saved me so that I could help you.’

The Exile snorts. ‘She didn’t save you. She _lied_ to you.’

‘It didn’t feel that way. It was different.’

‘Oh?’ She takes a step towards him, pushing through the chamber walls like the intangible ghosts of the past that they are. ‘She saw a threat and she dealt with it. That’s all. There was no concern in her actions for you, only for the Jedi.’

He sees her broken and compassionate face looking up at him from the floor. He sees the Exile’s face, haughty and dismissive, staring down at him from above. Ghosts of the past sitting beside nightmares of the present and him, the overlap between them, the one stuck in limbo.

Atton tries to shake his head, finds that he can’t. He can’t take his eyes off the two nameless Jedi. ‘But what she said… if I’d remained, they would have turned me into something else.’

‘Something else? She _already_ turned you into something else. Look at you!’

The memory’s wavering, fading, twisting in on itself. The blood begins to spread, the bruises turn to burns and shattered bones. Compassion morphs to satisfaction – a job done well. And the love – no, no, _no –_ ‘But that feeling… that love –’

‘Love?’ She spits out the word like it’s a foul taste in her mouth. ‘You said yourself that you throw up walls of emotion all the time, and I can assure you that Jedi are far more skilled than you are. For someone like that – for a _Jedi_ – what emotion would you have been _less_ familiar with, less able to discern a fake for, than love?’

He exhales and finds he can’t breathe in anymore. His lungs are hollow, emptied, imploding inside his chest. Her words are like a stun grenade exploding in his mind; all he knows is white noise and vague shapes as the lines between Atton and Jaq start to blur.

It’s not possible. Is it? No, no, it can’t be. He _felt_ it; it was so real that it changed him forever. It _has_ to be real. If it wasn’t –

‘She lied to you,’ the Exile says. Her tone is pure venom now. Or maybe that’s just what he wants to imagine. ‘She lied to you. Fooled you. _Broke_ you. Look at you now. From an elite assassin to – to _this_. She was your enemy. She _never_ loved you. She feared you, feared what you could do for your master. So she broke you the only way she could.’

_“Can you see it now?” she croaks. No noise comes from her mouth but he hears her words regardless. Her voice is weak inside his head, just as weak as she is in front of him._

_He sees the cuts, the burns, the bruises and abrasions he put on her body himself. He sees the light in her one remaining eye – so pure, so innocent, so **caring** – and he sees how she looks at him. Not with fear, or disgust, or horror. With understanding. Compassion. With **love**._

With _lies_.

The memory ends as it always does, with her body lying still in a pool of her own filth. But he _sees_ it now. He sees it for what it really is. There is no beauty in her death, no great meaning anymore. She is a corpse and nothing more. He sees nothing more now than the body of a liar, the body of a _Jedi_ , a sacrificial pawn who lied to prevent a much greater threat from appearing.

And he fell for it.

‘I –’ he swallows, hard, and tries again – ‘I didn’t… you’re right.’

She’s always right. _Always_.

‘I didn’t think of it like that. I didn’t… couldn’t. She… she _tricked_ me.’ His stomach churns as rage builds. His desertion. The constant questioning. The fear, the _hurt_ – all lies.

_“Jaq?”_

_He’s well-trained enough not to jump, though he wants to, and he turns around to face the Dark Jedi with feigned indifference. “Who’s asking?”_

_The man – a Devaronian, one he doesn’t recognise – wrinkles his nose. “Are you on spice or something?”_

_“Nope.”_

_“Huh. Hungover?”_

_Not particularly, not today. “Not that I’m aware of.”_

_“Then why the krif do you feel so messed-up?”_

_Jaq licks his lips, switches from pazaak to hyperspace routes like nothing’s different. Like he doesn’t know. “We’re all messed up, idiot. Maybe you’re just being too nosy. Go stick your horns in someone else’s head.”_

_He knows. It’s all wrong, he’s broken, he can’t do this anymore and he **knows**. _

‘Another Jedi trick. Jedi hypocrisy, like all the others. Crawling in my head. Making it not mine anymore.’ His fists are shaking now. Not in fear, not in rage, but in a thousand nameless emotions that have always been there, just below the surface, clamouring to break out.

_“You got a name, or just a big mouth?”_

_He keeps his (current) first name and picks another surname on a whim. The one in the logs here is already a fake anyway but it never hurts to play it safe. ‘Atton. Atton Rand. Excuse me for not shaking hands; this field only causes mild electrical burns.’_

_The hum of her vibroblade sets his teeth on edge. There’s scratches on her legs, mild burns on her thighs; he could make them deeper, brighter. He could watch her skin peel back and blood trail over her scars like water. He could let her press the blade to his neck, hold the blaster to his temple, then he could wrap his hand around her throat –_

He hadn’t. Not because he couldn’t but because he didn’t want to. _Atton_ didn’t want to. He was Atton, not Jaq. He _is_ Atton, not Jaq… or had been. Maybe. He doesn’t know anymore. The line’s so blurred now. It feels like he’s living in stereo. He’s been living in stereo since he killed _her_ , since he tried to become something he wasn’t. Something he could never be.

He crushes his eyes shut. The white noise fades to black, the vague shapes dissolve to shadows. The past becomes the present becomes the future and he just doesn’t _care_. He can’t go back to that, he _can’t_ , but he can’t remember _why_ anymore and – ‘I’m tired of not knowing who I am anymore.’

‘Your name is meaningless.’ There’s a hand on his shoulder now; she has come close enough to touch him. She _is_ touching him. Ugly, disgusting, him. He doesn’t deserve it. She’s brutal and ruthless and cruel and beautiful and she is still so much _better_ than him. ‘The only thing that matters is your instinct. Your _strength_. Call yourself what you like, Atton, but know that I do not care, as long as you serve me.’

All he knows is the hand on his shoulder and the voice in his ears promising salvation. Promising an end to this half-life. Promising the start to something _more_.

His mouth is moving before he can think: ‘I will. I will follow you to hell and back. I will do whatever you ask, anything you ask. Your enemies are mine. I was shown the Force once – I heard it, felt it. It was used to weaken me. I know now she meant to turn me away from it, and I will not follow that path any longer. I – I want to learn how to use it. As I was meant to, as you _want_ me to. And there will be no place in the galaxy that your – _our_ enemies can hide from me.’

She puts her hand beneath his chin and tilts his head up. For a moment he thinks he sees her but then her thumb pushes his eyelids open and he _actually_ sees her. He blinks once, twice, and his gaze meets hers. ‘Will you run again?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘Even if it means your death?’

‘I have nothing else to live for. If I can die to protect you, to serve you, it will have been worthwhile.’

Her lips curl up into the most predatory, satisfied smile he’s ever seen. He should be annoyed about that, some far-off part of his mind says, but the raw fury and fire coursing through him overrides it. He doesn’t care if this was part of her plan all along. He doesn’t _care_ if this is merely making him into a better pawn for her. He’s been lost to her from the moment he first saw her and he’ll follow her to the ends of the galaxy, if she orders it. Or even if she doesn’t.

‘Train me,’ he pleads. ‘I told you – I’ll do whatever you say. Kill whoever you ask. Just – please. I can’t be this – this _weak_ any longer. Not knowing that I could be more.’

She places her free palm against his forehead. Her hands are calloused and rough, cool against his boiling skin. ‘You shall do all that, in time. Make that vow and remember it. But for now – just close your eyes, and listen.’

He does.

‘Imagine the slaughter of the war, the death at your hands, and the energy it filled you with.’

He doesn’t have to try very hard. His fingers twitch as they pull the memory of triggers, grasp the memory of knives, choke the memory of throats. His nostrils fill with the scent of battle: fire, blood, fumes – _suffering_. He’d not known it for that then but now – now he does. Now he knows. The scent of war is suffering and it’s more potent than any cup of caf.

‘Hear the echo of the rage you felt during the war – the hate, the betrayal.’

The ember of his earlier spent rage flickers to life once more as he remembers exacting bloody vengeance for men lost under his command. He remembers the vicious glee he felt tearing down the enemy Jedi, making them see how pointless their pacifism had been. He remembers seeing holos of senator after senator congratulating and back-patting each other when all they’d done was push pads and debate endlessly as almost everyone he knew lay maimed, dying or already dead.

‘Feel the fires as Republic ships burn, as Jedi fall before you.’

He finds himself standing on the viewing platform of a large ship. Outside, space is littered with the wracked hulls of ships. Space is cold and space is silent – even children know that – but he’s not listening to space now. He listens _past_ the space, to the echoes that ripple beyond the physical, and he can hear the screams of men as explosions rip through the walls they thought safe. He can feel the searing heat of flames as fuel stores burn out, temporary stars. And he can feel the pangs of fear, of agony as Jedi after Jedi die a cold, silent death.

It’s beautiful. More than beautiful; it’s sublime.

‘And at last, Atton,’ she says, and he _feels_ the words in the core of his being, ‘awaken.’

For a moment he’s standing in the centre of an ion engine as it fires up. His core is a supernova, his very soul exploding outwards at the speed of light. It burns and it hurts and he loves every torturous second of it. For the second time in his life, he hears it, and he will never turn away from it again.

He comes back to reality panting hard on his hands and knees. Her hands are no longer on him; she’s standing above him ( _where she belongs, above broken things like you_ ) and she is smiling. Satisfaction rolls off her in waves, drowning out the misery that emanates from this wretched moon – all things that he can _feel_ now. It’s so loud. It’s so _loud_. But she’s there, louder and stronger than the background noise, and as he focuses on her he finds that everything else starts to slip away until it’s little more than a hum.

He’s everything he once hated, everything he _still_ hates but she’s smiling so he smiles too. Only barely a man, but not yet a monster. If it means he can protect her, he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care.

And now there only remains one last thing to do.

* * *

‘I told her. Told her _everything._ ’

Kreia raises her head from her usual spot: meditating on the dormitory floor. ‘Ah. And now you are free?’

He hates that she’s still so smug. He can feel it through his newly-awakened Force connection – that sickly, cloying, insufferable _smugness_ that drips from her words every time she speaks. ‘Yeah. So no more threats, no more of your “requests”. You and me – we’re done.’

‘Did you ever think I truly held you?’ she asks, rising to her feet to face him properly. ‘You are more of a fool than I thought. What truly held you was _you_ –‘ the dormitory door shuts behind him with a hiss – ‘and let me show you why.’

He takes a step back despite himself, drops his hand to his blaster automatically. ‘You –’

She continues speaking as if he hadn’t moved at all. ‘I once held the galaxy by the throat… as _you_ once held _her_ by the throat, and let her die slowly.’

The sickly, cloying feeling ripples, becoming sinister and twisted – eager, excited. Anticipatory. _Hungry_.

He takes another step back, trying to recoil from the malevolence but the feeling doesn’t diminish.

It’s not coming from her.

‘Your emotion at that point is what you fear,’ she says, voice rich with quiet malice. ‘You see, I wielded power like you cannot imagine. Everything I saw was awash with possibilities, spreading outwards, touching everything else. I saw all of that, _all_ that the Force is… and only when it was ripped from me did I truly see it. And I know what lies buried within _you_. What you hide with your desperate thoughts, your guilt, your… _lusts_.’

His mouth is dry. His heart’s pounding, like he’s in a fight – no, not a fight, something else. Something fraught with just as much adrenaline, just as much pain, but so much _worse_ because it’s not enough; it was _never_ enough.

The hunger burns brighter. Stronger. _Deeper_.

Kreia smiles, showing yellowed teeth. ‘I can unlock that part of you anytime I wish. It is a simple thing. The human mind, once it feels something strongly, it becomes etched in the memory, the subconscious. Shall I _show_ you? That part of you that hungered to kill Jedi, that took _pleasure_ from it?’

Atton tries to open his mouth to speak, to tell her _no_ , to tell her _stop_ but he can’t form words; the most noise he can make is a choked, pathetic whine as the hunger overwhelms him. He’s almost shaking – no, he _is_ shaking with long-repressed need, with that _hunger_ , so long denied. He recalls wrapping his fingers around her neck and squeezing, crushing, _taking –_

Then just as suddenly it’s gone, like it was never there – like it was all just a bad dream – except his heart’s still racing, he’s harder than he’s been in years and there’s a deep, familiar, almost agonising ache in his core.

‘Or perhaps you will continue to _listen_ to my counsel and I shall ignore your pathetic attempts at freedom,’ she says dismissively, turning her back on him. If she notices his arousal, she shows no sign of caring. ‘Now leave me, murderer. I have nothing further to say to one such as you.’

He has no smart responses. No sarcastic replies. He stumbles out of the dorms with his head spinning and his cock painfully hard; it’s all he can do to scramble to the ‘fresher without running into walls or anyone else. He sits there for long, painful minutes, almost retching from the churning of his stomach, scrubbing his face with cold water again and again and again.

He will not touch himself. He will _not_.

– _but he could think back on that feeling, so vivid, so real_ –

Atton slams his fist into the panelling on the back of the ‘fresher unit, hard, and the corners of his eyes prick with threatened tears.

He is no longer a man but he will not become a monster again. He will _not_. The Exile might not care about his past now but she will care greatly if it joins them in the present, and he can’t protect her if all he wants to do is take her apart (which he _doesn’t_ , he really _doesn’t_ , not at all, _no_ ).

(except, just below the surface, _yes_ )


	3. EPISODE III: Dxun & Onderon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: this is where the fic starts earning its explicit rating. Heavy sadism, masochism, death threats, torture, blood, masturbation, (kind of) edging, extremely dubious/no verbal consent, slightly more explicit misgenderings, misuse of the Force, both explicit and implied violence and generally bad people doing horrible things to each other, only some of which is consensual or appreciated. No actual sex, though. As much as Atton would prefer otherwise.
> 
> To be explcitly clear: this is _not_ healthy or good BDSM. This is a nascent Sith Lord taking out their sadism on an apprentice and said apprentice being too sadistic/masochistic to be properly upset about it. This is bad, bad BSDM done by bad, bad people.
> 
> I am still not entirely sure how this chapter came to be but welp, it is what it is.

Onderon is apparently a relatively nice place but they don’t get much of a chance to see it. Before they can even reach orbit the local authorities open fire on them and instead of a controlled descent into Iziz they’re crashing through the underbrush for yet another rough landing – on the moon Dxun, if they’ve guessed correctly. Atton’s a little preoccupied avoiding quadlaser fire and trees to give too much of a shit exactly what landmass they make it onto.

“Fortunately” Kreia feels that there’s a reason they’ve been pulled to this moon. Atton suspects it’s as much making the most of a bad situation as it is anything actually Force-related but – after that confrontation on Nar Shaddaa – he’s not about to push it. He can’t risk that. Apparently she hasn’t yet got any blackmail on Bao-Dur because she “has a feeling” that the repairs won’t be finished until the Exile finds whatever she needs to find here, and _he’s_ the one that gets stuck on the ship while everyone else gets to run around the jungle.

After seeing the state they come back in after that first venture – damp, sweaty, covered in cannok guts and all manner of vegetation – Atton actually finds himself a little grateful for it. Even if it’s taking him five times as long as anyone else to make repairs.

After three days of being stuck on the _Ebon Hawk_ while the others explore forgotten caches and a legitimate Mandalorian camp, though, his gratitude is wearing mighty thin.

‘Got your own helmet yet?’ he asks, only somewhat bitterly, as the returning party stumble back onboard.

‘Not yet. The old man’s a stubborn son-of-a-kath-hound for sure.’ She stretches out her neck as she dumps an overflowing pack on the table. ‘Not to mention that sergeant running the battle circle. “Not allowed to use the Force” – hah. They wouldn’t know if I was using the Force if it lit me up like a cantina sign. Wait – oh, _wait_ , there’s something you _have_ to hear from today. HK! Play that recording of the scout!’

‘Eager statement: With pleasure, Master!’

Atton listens, with only a little trepidation. The somewhat panicked voice of a Mandalorian echoes from HK’s vocabulator: _“Don’t touch that button! It’ll blow up all my charges!”_

Then her, sounding like nothing so much as a kid in a toy-store: _“You mean this button here?”_

There’s a soft click, a loud explosion, and Atton bursts out laughing as several meaty _thunks_ begin to sound.

He is a bad, bad person. But it’s okay because she’s worse, and look – that was legitimately funny. At least by the standards of someone who’s been stuck in a grounded ship for three days straight.

‘One of his legs landed in a whole other clearing!’ she says delightedly. ‘Force, I wish I’d gotten it on holo.’

‘And what, show the old man just how much respect you really have for his groupies?’

‘We were meant to find his body anyway. I just left out the part where he was still alive when we got there. The audio simply doesn’t do it justice.’

‘Statement: Master, I do so adore these opportunities to witness the cruelties you inflict on your fellow meatbags,’ HK says. It starts to empty its pack onto the common-space table: guns, field rations, medpacks, a few grenades. Every items has at least a smattering of blood on it. ‘Every time I believe I have found the depths of your depravities, you sink to another level still.’

Her gaze slides over to Atton. Her grin widens. ‘Stick around for a while, HK. You haven’t seen anything yet.’

He thinks of their conversation on Nar Shaddaa, thinks of his conversation with Kreia, and his smile becomes a little more forced.

It’s the isolation. It’s getting to him. Definitely not anything else.

* * *

Later that evening, Atton groans, ‘This isn’t working.’

‘Try it again.’

‘I _am_ trying it again. It’s just – _augh_. It’s not _working_.’ He shoves his sweat-matted hair off his forehead. Across the hold a lone ration-bar sits unmoving on the floor, taunting him. ‘Not all of us can be so naturally gifted with non-damaging Force powers, you know.’

She smirks before frowning at him, sternly. ‘Being gifted or not has nothing to do with it. It’s a matter of focus. Stop counting cards in your head and put all that energy into the push.’

At least it’s proof she’s not reading his mind. ‘I _wasn’t_ counting cards. It’s just – look. It’s hot as hell in here and kneeling on this metal isn’t exactly comfortable. Are you sure I can’t do this standing up?’

‘I told you, it’s _meant_ to be uncomfortable. If you can only use the Force when you’re comfortable you’re completely useless to me. I already let you take your shirt off; you can’t be working _that_ hard. If it’s good enough for five-year-olds it’s good enough for those with the maturity of five-year-olds.’

‘The Jedi,’ he grumbles, wiping his palm on his pants, ‘sound more and more messed up every time you talk about them. And five-year-olds don’t have knees full of shrapnel.’

‘The more uncomfortable the better, apprentice. _Again_.’

Atton scowls mutinously and re-focuses his gaze on that damned ration bar. ‘Then why don’t you train in that dancer’s outfit, _Master_?’ he mutters, summoning his energy for another fruitless attempt.

The building pressure in his fingertips is dissipated harshly when the cargo-bay door slams shut, jolting him from his concentration. Across the room, a corner of the bar’s wrapping twitches. Probably just the air pressure. He’s about to grumble about needless additional distractions when suddenly there’s a pair of far too familiar boots blocking his vision of the bar.

‘Care to tell me,’ she says, and he’s only mildly concerned to hear the venom in her voice, ‘exactly what gave you the impression that I was _uncomfortable_ wearing that travesty?’

Atton shrugs. It’s not the first time she’s been mad and him and it certainly won’t be the last. ‘You were walking like you had a gaffi stick up your ass and death-glaring everyone who even glanced at your feet. Going to tell me that’s how you show you’re at ease? Come on; you’re telling me you never wondered why I nearly talked myself into getting fried when we were walking over?’

For a second she almost looks surprised. Then her gaze narrows again. ‘You were there to shoot, not to worry about my comfort.’

‘Believe me, I was more worried about enjoying the view. Bit hard when you were doing your best droid impression. Good thing your comfort and my enjoyment went hand-in-hand.’ It’s always easier to tell half-truths than outright lies. ‘Kind of surprised me, to tell the truth. I mean, you _met_ me in your underwear and you’re not exactly an unattractive woman – opposite, really – but I guess I _am_ a bit better-looking than the average Nar Shaddaa glitter junkie –’

His words are cut off forcefully by a sudden cold, invisible and _very_ firm pressure around his throat.

‘Don’t you dare say that again,’ she hisses. Off to the side, the bay door locks with a sharp _click_.

He can’t really say anything right now and he tries futilely to gesture as much, all the while frantically trying to work out what line’s he’s finally crossed. She never did fry him for what he said on the walk to Vogga’s; how is anything he’s said today even _nearly_ as forward as that? There has to be at least a dozen times he’s been cruder in the last week alone.

She releases her hold enough for him to choke out, ‘W-what, that I’m good-looking, or –’

‘That I’m a woman.’

Atton feels as if someone’s just fired a sonic blaster point-blank into both of his ears. Fortunately she hasn’t fully dropped the choke and struggling for oxygen does a fantastic job of keeping him grounded. ‘But – _what_? I’ve _seen_ you –’

She takes a heavy step towards him, her lips twisted in a vicious snarl. ‘I told you – the person I used to be is long dead. You will not call me a woman because that is not who I am. That is not _what_ I am. Do you understand me?’

He doesn’t understand anything anymore, let alone this. His mind is splintering and his throat’s starting to ache from the effort to drag in air. If it wasn’t for the conversation they’re having he’d be thrilled at the situation but as it is, his thoughts are a bit too preoccupied with her words to be able to focus on the sensations. ‘No! Why didn’t you say something earlier?’

She’s almost close enough to touch him now. He’s still on his knees, struggling vainly against her Force-grip on his neck and if he wasn’t legitimately just a _bit_ afraid for his life he’d be wishing for a looser pair of pants.

‘This is the first time you’ve referred to me as such.’ She stares him down disdainfully. ‘Though from the sounds of it, not the first time you’ve thought of me as such.’

‘Of course not! If it looks like a blaster and fires like a blaster then I’m not going to throw it at someone thinking it’s a grenade!’

She glances over to one of the lockers by the wall and frowns critically at her own reflection, like she’s only just realising that she does, in fact, look like a woman. A _lot_ like a woman, at least as far as Atton’s concerned.

“Jedi”, “Exile”, “Master”, “General” and “you” _are_ gender-neutral, he begrudgingly accepts. He’d still have much preferred that someone else made this mistake first.

A strange expression crosses her face. Something between understanding and irritation. It’s gone as quickly as it appears though, and when her gaze meets his he can only see a single emotion there, one he is _far_ too familiar with – though it was usually _him_ with that expression, not the one on his knees. ‘I think we’ll have to do something about that,’ she says.

Oh, he is in _trouble_.

With a gesture he’s sent flying across the room, stopping when his back slams into the far bay wall. Stars dance in front of his eyes. Cold pressure surrounds his wrists, pinning them against the wall above his head, and it isn’t until she grabs his hair and forces him to look up that he realizes two things: one, she’s taken the emergency vibroblade from his boot and is now idly toying with it in her free hand. Two, he _really_ should have ended his dry streak before they left Nar Shaddaa as it’s getting steadily more difficult to be properly afraid ( _especially_ after that conversation with Kreia – the temptation of the hunger’s been hovering at the edge of his mind ever since). It’s not that he’s particularly upset about it but he suspects if she becomes aware of the – _impending_ situation, she will be, and she’s the one with the knife.

‘Whoa, whoa,’ he says, straining futilely against the pressure pinning him in place. It’s a poor decision. He stops after a token effort and rapidly starts dealing cards in his mind instead. ‘I mean – I made assumptions and it’s not like plus – _attraction_ needs a direction, you know? I’m sorry, I didn’t –’

‘Let’s continue the lesson,’ she says, tracing the knife across his chest. Her voice is soft and almost gentle; it worms its way through his ears and down to his stomach, feeding the growing ball of warmth deep in his gut. ‘If you can’t push an object directly, perhaps you’ll have more luck simply pushing away from yourself. I want you to break your way out of the bonds I have on your wrists. But since you’ve already shown some promise in the more violent applications of Force manipulation –’ she presses the blade a little harder – ‘you can do it while learning how to properly address me.’

Suddenly he is uncomfortably aware of her proximity to him – and more importantly, his proximity to _her_. She’s half-kneeling astride one of his legs, her face so close to his he can almost feel the heat rising from her skin. Her grounded knee is dangerously close to his crotch. Her thigh is pressing against _his_ thigh and every time she shifts her weight he’s reminded of how warm she is. Worst of all, he’s shirtless and sweaty, and both her Force-grip and the knife's blade are pleasantly cool.

The air is almost electric. He can feel the currents of the Force shifting around them, drawn to her excitement like mynocks to an unshielded freighter, and for a moment he thinks he can almost _see_ it.

Deal a five, totals are eight-ten or three-fifteen. Deal a seven, totals are fifteen-seventeen and ten or bust. Were her pupils always so large?

The blade leaves the faintest of scratches as she traces it up his chest, almost tantalisingly slowly, until it rests in the small hollow below his left collarbone. ‘You’re going to describe me as if you’re talking to someone else. Don’t think too hard; simply say exactly what’s on your mind. Every time you use an incorrect word, I push a little harder. I’m not stopping until either you break free or I bury this blade under your clavicle and twist it until you pass out. Do you understand me… _Atton_?’

He understands that if he’s not very, very careful, that knife is going to cut plenty of other things before she’s done with it. She’s tolerated his incessant flirting and occasionally seemed to reciprocate but he’s not an idiot – she’s got a line. Somewhere. He doesn’t want to find it when she’s already got him at knifepoint. And honestly, he’s fine with a little pain, _more_ than fine with her the one inflicting it on him, but what she’s threatening sounds like it’s going to be a lot more than he’d enjoy.

Well. Only maybe. He’s still warped there, always has been (no matter if he’s Atton or Jaq) and he’s definitely noticed an uptick in pain tolerance since he started learning to use the Force – but there’s a fine line between pushing limits and ignoring them. There’s no safe-words here. _She’s_ the one who decides when it stops.

He’s a man, not a monster. He has limits. He _has_ to.

Atton exhales through his teeth. He deals himself an extra hand and forces himself to meet her gaze. ‘You’re insane.’

‘I could always read your thoughts instead.’

‘ _No_ , thank-you,’ he bites out, perhaps a little too quickly. ‘No. I’ll talk. Uh. Describe you how, again?’

‘Like you’re talking to another person.’

‘O-okay. Uh. _Krif_ , this is awkward.’

Deal an eight and a two, totals are six-ten and one-three or four-twelve and –

‘The Exile is, um, human, and she’s not –‘

With a sharp twinge, the knife breaks skin.

– negative two – no, zero-six. Zero-six. No negatives in Republic Senate rules. Deal a four and a three, totals are ten-fourteen…

‘– uh, _he’s_ not a Jedi, but used to be, and –’

‘If I didn’t know better,’ she says as the blade slides deeper, earning a surprised hiss of pain from him and making him nearly lose count of the second hand, ‘I’d say you _wanted_ me to cut you.’

‘There’s a whole list of things I’d rather have you do to me first.’ Technically not a lie.

She snorts, ‘Then keep talking. Or try a bit harder with those bonds. It’s a nice little knife; I might be able to pry the collarbone right out of your body with enough leverage.’

Right; he’s meant to be actually trying to force his way free too. He ditches the higher hand and tries to re-focus energy to his wrists as he runs through the various pronouns Basic has. It’s a little harder than it should be. Scratch that, a _lot_ harder than it should be. The first image that springs to mind is her – him – _the Exile_ walking stiffly through the alleyways of Nar Shaddaa in the dancer’s outfit like a droid. ‘Right. Uh – the Exile is human, and it’s not a Jedi but it used to be, and –’

The knife doesn’t go any deeper but it does twist. Just a little. Progress? Safe ground, at least.

Emboldened, he risks catching the Exile’s gaze (and _hey_ , technically correct on the first attempt; apparently he’s a quick learner after all). The sadism’s still there, hungry and earnest, but there’s something flowing a little deeper that he can’t quite pin down. He’s not sure he wants to. Or if he even can.

Switch the signs, the total is… something. A number between five and eight… probably?

He gives up on the cards and reroutes all his focus to his wrists. By her own admission his mind is safe right now and honestly, as much as he kind of wants this all to continue, he’s well aware that that’s only partially his own desire and he still _loathes_ knowing that he can be so easily influenced by the Force around her. Around _them_. Shit.

Wait; that’s it. That’s _got_ to be it. ‘The Exile was a Republic General back in the Mandalorian Wars,’ he says, and mentally braces himself just in case he’s wrong, ‘but at present they get their kicks stealing anything not bolted down, murdering anyone that gets in their way and literally torturing their apprentices because they’re a sadistic son-of-a – _child-_ of-a-kath-hound.’

She ( _they, they, **they**_ ) smiles wickedly. The blade is removed and for a moment Atton relaxes.

‘ _Good_ boy,’ they say approvingly, then they shift the knife to the right and push it straight back in again, just as deep as it was the first time. ‘But you’re not free yet. Keep talking.’

The praise catches him off-guard; the stab surprises him enough to force an actual groan out of his mouth. The building pressure at his wrists vanishes. Pressure is slowly but surely building _elsewhere_ , instead.

He is in _so much_ trouble.

‘Uh – shit. The Exile is a human and he– _their_ skin is pale. Like a wet piece of silk. Um. Their eyes are… eye-shaped (“Eloquent.”), colour's weird, but they always look kind of red. Their hair is white and kept short. What else…’

Pull the energy in; focus on the building pressure at his wrists. Not the blade in his chest or the warmth on his leg or –

She – _they_ – shift their weight, and then suddenly there’s warmth pressing against the last thing Atton needs warmth against right now.

Maybe they won’t notice. Maybe they’ll be too distracted by their own sadism. Maybe –

‘You’re actually _enjoying_ this,’ she says – no, _they_ say – and they sound almost amused. But only almost.

‘No! I mean, well, yes, but not like that! It’s just the proximity, and – look, I’m –’

A sharp _crack_ sounds as the Exile backhands him across the face. ‘When did I say you could _enjoy_ this?’

Their eyes are pools of liquid fire. Consuming, burning, drowning. _Hungry_.

The switch flips in his mind before he’s had a chance to think twice, or even think at all. ‘Y-you didn’t.’

‘Didn’t _what_?’

‘Didn’t say –’ their knee grinds against him, hard, painful even through the layers, and it takes every last scrap of his focus to not lose the gathering pressure at his wrists. ‘– say – _uh_ –’

They grind the knee again, insistent. ‘I didn’t say _what_ , Rand?’

‘You didn’t say I could – _shit_ – could enjoy this!’ The words are rushed, jumbled together as they escape his mouth. He’s starting to pant. He hasn’t lost the pressure, not yet, but _krif_ it’s a close thing.

‘So why _are_ you?’

‘I don’t know!’ It’s a lie, a filthy lie but he doesn’t know how to do anything else. A keening noise escapes his lips as they jerk the knife to the side, then a sharp gasp as they push it deep enough to finally touch his collarbone. It hurts – _damn_ does it hurt – but it hurts in a way things haven’t hurt for a while and Atton is in _so much trouble_.

The pressure. The _pressure_. Focus on the _pressure_.

‘That’s a lie. You’re too well-behaved for this to be a surprise.’

He wants to bite back with a jab at how getting hard during a torture session is being “well-behaved” but _stars_ this feels _good_ and _good_ toys don’t bite back, they beg. It’s good like it hasn’t been for years, like _he_ hasn’t been for years. And it’s not his fault, not really – he didn’t start this – so it’s not like he has to feel guilty over it. Maybe this is what he needs; a chance to let it all out one last time, get it out of his system.

_– that’s what you said the last time, and the time before that –_

‘Did you hear me?’ they snarl, but they don’t sound angry. They’re just as hungry as he is. He can feel it through the Force. It echoes off his own hunger, magnifying it – intensifying it. ‘I said you’re a _liar_ , Atton Rand. You know _exactly_ why you’re enjoying this. I want you to tell me.’

‘I – I –’

They begin rocking their knee, rhythmically, repetitively. ‘Use your words.’

He caves. He caves _hard_. ‘Because it feels _good_ ,’ he groans, pushing back against their knee fervently. The action pushes the knife a little deeper but that’s the last thing he cares about right now. ‘Because I deserve all of it and worse. Because it’s you hurting me, like I deserve, making me ugly, making me _hurt_ –’

The Exile grabs his hair again, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, and lowers themself to his eye-level. They don’t pause the rocking. ‘Rand, if you _dare_ to finish, I _will_ kill you.’

He believes them. He absolutely believes them. He’s going to die.

They twist the blade properly for the first time and he cries out; the bone doesn’t break but damned if it doesn’t feel close. It’s almost enough to kill his arousal, almost enough to shatter the energy at his wrists but he clings onto it, somehow, by some miracle of will. He can feel blood running down his chest – fuck that, he can _smell_ it, damn near _taste_ it – and he’s torn between wanting to hurt and wanting to _be_ hurt, between wanting to fight back and wanting to submit to _them_ , between the tearing in his chest and the smooth grinding in his groin –

He’s close. He’s _so_ close. It’s too rhythmic, too harsh, too _everything_. Stars gather behind his eyes and his core feels like it’s on fire. He’s going to go, he’s going to lose it, he's going to _die_ –

Atton grits his teeth and with the last scraps of his willpower he forces all the stored energy to explode out from his wrists. There’s an awful moment where it feels like nothing’s happened – like nothing’s changed – and then he slumps forward to the ground as the pressure holding him up disappears. Like a puppet with its strings cut. There’s no elegance to his descent; his arms and cheek smack against the hold floor with a resounding _thwap_ and he very nearly groans again, except that the pressure on his crotch is gone and the weight of his fall is enough to almost make him dizzy. Also possibly the blood loss. He really, really can’t think straight right now.

‘That took you longer than I thought it would,’ they say, almost sounding amused. ‘Still – that was a strong hold you managed to break. Good job.’ They throw his knife to the floor; a few specks of his own blood fly up to land on his face when it bounces across the metal panels.

He’s panting too hard to speak. Scratch that – he _is_ too hard to speak. But he’s alive. Alive and so close to coming undone he’s not sure it’s safe to move. It’d be a waste to make it this far and then have his throat slit because he rubbed against his own pants the wrong way.

‘We’re finished for tonight. Go patch yourself up. Force healing only; no medpacks. You need the practice and I don’t want you wasting resources. I don’t care if it leaves scars. If anyone asks… you might want to leave out the part where you enjoyed it.’ They pause briefly, then chuckle. ‘Or don’t. Let them know exactly what kind of a man you are. Almost a shame, really… I could have stood to keep that as a regular form of punishment.’

‘Don’t let me stop you,’ his mouth says, unprompted.

Their laughter is sick. Twisted. It’s a noise that should be coming from _him._ ‘Work hard enough, and I just might.’

The door unlocks and slides open. Then they’re gone, leaving him crumpled on the cargo-bay floor like a used rag.

It’s a long time before he can risk moving.

* * *

Much later that evening, long after he’s found his feet and badly patched up the mess on his chest, he locks the cockpit door and re-imagines their first encounter back on Peragus for about the hundredth time. It’s still useless as a mental shield. He wasn’t expecting that to change. That’s never been its use and, this time, it starts a little differently.

_‘ **Nice** outfit. What, you miners change regulation uniform while I’ve been in here?’_

_They don’t even blink. They keep striding towards him, appraising him critically. ‘You got a name? Or just a big mouth?’_

In his re-imaginings they’re crueler, sharper, more like they are now. They’re not willing to take some imprisoned nobody’s word on a whim. They disable the cage to run the looted vibroblade across Atton’s neck, down his chest, and they demand unquestionable proof of his loyalty to them before they’ll permit him to serve them.

In his re-imaginings the blade stays only just deeper than surface-level, no medpacks needed, and in the cockpit he has to muffle heavy breaths into his elbow as the interrogation is slowly but surely turned around. The interrogator becomes the questioned. But instead of motivations or plans he’s asking if they want his mouth or his hand, asking if they want him behind them or pinning them down, asking if he’s going too hard or too fast or not quite rough enough.

It’s never rough enough. It could _never_ be rough enough. Not anymore. He could ignore the responses, ignore the cries, push harder, _break them –_

He jerks his hand away harshly, hissing at the loss of sensation.

No. No, no, _no_. He’s only barely a man but he is _not_ a monster, not to them, not even in his mind. Not even if _they_ are.

He counts to twenty, rewinds the scene and then slowly, carefully, permits himself to start again.

Listen to the responses. Be rough, but within limits. Push hard but not _too_ hard. They’re tough, they’ll take it, they’ll beg for more anyway; they’re a sadist like him. They’re warped like him. They like to hurt like him. They’ll beg and plead and pant and snarl and – and –

He comes harder than he has in years (since he deserted, since he stopped being Jaq, since he stopped being honest with himself), his seed spilling into a spare rag kept lying around the cockpit for quick repairs. It’s a poor facsimile of them but he’ll take it for now. It travels a lot easier and is far less likely to kill him.

He’s still a man. He is not a monster, no matter what anyone does to him, and he’ll stay that side of the line even if it kills him.

Unless she – unless _they_ ask him, of course. Then he doesn’t have a hope in hell.

* * *

He doesn’t see the Exile again until he runs into them the next day on his way to the garage, as they’re about to head out with Bao-Dur and HK-47. Hanharr’s already outside, sharpening his blades on a rock; Visas is watching the Wookie critically as she toys with her repaired lightsaber. Ah, right – Zakkeg hunting. No doubt why Kreia’s staying in her “chambers”.

‘How go the repairs?’ Bao-Dur asks.

Behind the Zabrak’s back, the Exile smirks knowingly at Atton.

He forces what he hopes is a casual grin. Two can play at that game. ‘Eh; nothing that’ll make a holomag cover, but it’ll do. I’m no expert. Just don’t expect it to come out looking too pretty.’

Bao-Dur nods thoughtfully. ‘That’s good. I can always go over the rough spots later, smooth them out.’

‘Statement: There is little to be gained from “fixing” anything that is not actually broken, especially on something that is likely to be damaged again.’

‘I doubt it’ll happen again.’ He pauses, deliberately meeting their gaze. ‘You know. Getting shot down and all.’

‘I’d like to hope so,’ Bao-Dur agrees, oblivious.

The Exile merely smiles. Their eyes glint bright in the morning light. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t bet on it.’

A phantom twinge runs through his still-healing wound. A far more physical twitch runs through his cock.

She – _they_ turn on their heel and motion imperiously for the droid and the mechanic to follow. ‘Besides, it’s keeping you occupied. Idle hands tend to get up to _mischief_.’

Atton stays at the top of the ramp until the hunting party leave his sight.

Switch the sign on the plus-one/minus-one card, the total is irrelevant.

Goddamn sadistic Dark Jedi.

* * *

Despite being far less humid and home to far fewer cannocks, the tension in Iziz is palpable. Even without the benefit of his recently-awakened Force senses Atton can feel how nervous people are. Turrets watch over the entrance and exit to the landing bays; there are almost as many armed guards patrolling as there are citizens meandering. The background fear and worry is enough to start his own stomach churning, which is probably why he doesn’t pick up on Tobin’s “ambush” before it’s almost too late.

Not that it changes much. The man himself arrives after they’ve all but cleared the cantina out (with more than a few civilian casualties; HK took the order to “go to town” very literally) and gives his blessing for them to murder their way back to the shuttle in order to “keep up appearances”.

‘We’d be doing that whether you liked it or not,’ the Exile says bluntly, drawing their so-far-unused lightsaber and activating it with a sharp hum. ‘There’s at least three sets of bounty hunters between here and the docks and – honestly? It’s been a long couple of days here. I’d tell anyone you don’t want killed to get out of our way. We won’t be pulling punches.’

Tobin looks at the saber (it’s still not red, but they found a silver crystal on Dxun which is at least not teal) then at the rest of the group (a Mandalorian, a mercenary and an assassin droid, all with weapons drawn and smoking), and pales slightly. ‘Ah… yes. I will.’

Smirking, they glance to the group. ‘We’re heading back to the shuttle. Keep moving or get left behind. And – Atton? Stealth would be counterproductive. We’ve got gunners already. Sabers out.’

A couple of weeks ago he’d have told them they were insane. He’d have told them that a roving fight through a foreign city was that _last_ place to try out a new weapon for the first time (let alone two of them) in a real battlefield environment. But it’s been a pretty intense few weeks and he has a _lot_ of pent-up aggression to work out, made all the more appealing by the bloodlust building in the Force around them, so he doesn’t even try to argue.

Instead he grins and stashes his blaster, drawing his own lightsabers – a short viridian blade for his off hand and a normal-length purple blade for his main hand. Much like his master, they’re not the colours he’d prefer but he’ll take what he can get right now. ‘Can do.’ When they raise an eyebrow, he adds a thickly sardonic ‘ _Master_.’

‘A _fourth_ Jedi?’ Mandalore mutters. ‘Are you starting your own Council or something?’

Their lips twitch. ‘It’s hardly my fault that those with power are attracted to me.’ Then they’re spinning on their heel, striding for the door and the three men (well – two and a droid) hurry to join them.

Except it kind of is, though.

(Not that he’d ever tell _them_ that.)

* * *

Outside the cantina the city’s become a warzone. Bounty-hunters and guards are opening up on anyone that comes close; civilians are alternately sprinting for cover and launching frantic assaults with little more than fists and improvised weapons.

Roughly three seconds after he and Exile enter the scene with their lightsabers drawn, the battle shifts: everyone present versus the Jedi.

Atton is more okay with that than he’d care to admit.

From the unnatural warmth he can feel in his bones he knows the Exile’s boosting them, even before he closes into melee range and begins carving through the opposition. He’s deflecting blaster shots before he’s even registered them approaching and dodging swings without even needing to think about it. His blows hit harder, carve deeper, shove further than normal. He can almost _taste_ the charred flesh and the burnt blood just from the scent in the air.

He’s slightly disappointed that the lightsabers don’t make his opponents bleed the way blades do but the fear in their eyes almost makes up for it. Almost. It's easier to withstand the temptation to play with his opponents at least.

‘Watch it!’ the Exile suddenly snarls.

Atton glances in the direction of their voice, instinctively bringing his blades into a defensive position. To his surprise they’re up beside him instead of in their usual position by the gunners (they claim they were once a Consular and still much prefer to use their powers over their lightsaber); at their heel lies the bisected body of a bounty-hunter, hand still clutching a charged disruptor pistol.

‘The hell?’ he demands. ‘I’d have been fine.’

They expertly deflect a hail of blaster rounds back into the crowd. ‘Not if you took a hit from that.’

‘I’ve got a shield up.’

‘It’d have gone through.’

He deflects a pair of shots himself, one with each saber. ‘And?’

They send their lightsaber in a long, wide loop, letting their own shields take the shots as three men die to the spinning silver blade. ‘I don’t want you hard in a fight.’

Something ugly twists in his gut.

‘Krif off,’ he snarls. ‘I’m not _that_ messed up. That’s different.’ As if to prove it he stills his blades just long enough to let his shields burn out, then starts deflecting again and refreshes them before anything hits his skin.

‘ _Sure_ it is.’

‘You’re saying you think any pain does the job? That’s like saying carving up _anyone_ gets you off.’

‘You’re making some pretty grave assumptions.’

He runs his short blade through a bounty-hunter’s chest and twists to kick the corpse in their direction. They Force-push the body away before it ever touches them but it’s the intent that counts. ‘I saw you when you were slicing into me.’

They glare at him and raise a hand; Force lightning rips through a group of enemies on the far side of the street. ‘And you assume arousal based solely on seeing me punishing you?’

‘Of course not.’ He considers firing off a bolt of lightning himself but instead elects to concentrate his energy into a scream; the pair of attackers approaching him double over in agony as their eardrums rupture and he cuts them down without a second’s hesitation. ‘I could feel it through the Force.’

‘I think you’re full of it.’

‘I think you’re in denial. Or lying through your teeth.’

They bare said teeth. He only catches it out of the corner of his eye and at first thinks they’re angry. Seconds later he realizes they’re actually focused on pushing a charging Trandoshan back; either they’re too distracted to shove properly or the bounty-hunter’s particularly heavy and stubborn because it’s still on its feet even if it’s not making any real headway. He adds his own power to the mix and the creature finally goes flying backwards.

‘That was unnecessary.’

He bristles. ‘So was you coming over here. It’s my job to protect _you_ , not the other way around. Believe me – the only enjoyment I’m getting out of this battle is satisfaction from cutting these idiots down. Watch your own back and mind the mess in your own pants.’

Irritation spikes through the Force around them. His own anger starts to rise in response and he channels it into another ear-rending scream; four men double over and he prepares to cut them down. Before he has the chance another storm of Force lightning beats him to it. ‘Watch your tongue,’ they hiss.

‘Or what, you’ll torture me again? Didn’t realise you needed to get off _that_ badly.’

Their response is to raise a hand and drain the life-force from the hunters surrounding them. Atton can feel the energy draining into them like water flowing down a sink, feel the power tugging at his own body and for a moment thinks that he’s finally crossed a line too far – but he’s still standing when they lower their hand and the bodies start to hit the floor. Even if he _does_ feel just a bit more exhausted than he normally would from a skirmish like that.

He kills his short saber and raises his hand in placation because sometimes he knows when to not push his luck. Even if he _really_ kind of wants to call them out. He can be masochistic (on occasion, moreso when they’re involved) but he’s never been suicidal. ‘Retracted.’

They study him for a second or two, as if they’re only seeing him for the first time.

‘What?’ He kills his main saber too and begins to rifle through the corpses for anything of value. He’s been with them long enough to know the drill. ‘Am I not allowed to show some self-awareness now and then?’

‘Sometimes I forget you aren’t as ignorant as you pretend to be.’ They retract their own lightsaber and gesture to Mandalore and HK to begin sweeping the bodies as well. ‘Though I’m not sure if that was self-awareness or self-preservation.’

‘Hey. Why not both?’ He discards a used shield generator, pockets two credit chits and eyes off a dodgy-looking blaster pistol before shaking his head and moving onto the next body. Credit where it’s due; that life-draining technique does a really good job at blunting the leftover rush from the battle. Maybe one day they’ll teach him how to do it. It looks a lot easier than Force healing, that’s for sure.

He takes an unused stim off the next body and stashes it in his robes. ‘I meant what I said earlier though. Don’t get me wrong, it’s appreciated, but don’t risk your neck over – something that little.’ He stops himself saying _me_ at the last moment. That wasn’t their intention, as much as he wishes it was.

‘Hn. Fine then; I won’t. Just don’t come begging me for a medpack when your masochism gets the better of you.’

Atton watches them turn over still-warm corpses with no more care than they’d give a discarded ration bar, watches them rip weapons and implants out of bodies like they’re ripping parts out of droids, and knows that he won’t. Not because it’ll be an issue. Just because he won’t have any problems stopping it - unless they're the one hurting him.

(He really is in _so_ much trouble.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends the first 'trilogy' of this story. Two more to go.
> 
> I am still somewhat confused that _this_ is my first posted foray into "smut". None of the healthy, loving, explicitly-consenting, proper-boundaried stuff I prefer to read and (in theory >.>) prefer to write - _this_.
> 
> As a sidenote, this chapter (plus chapters 5 and 6) are more or less entirely responsible for the soon-to-be-posted sidepieces for "The Last to Know", because I felt obliged to balance this hedonistic filth with more wholesome and loving smut.


	4. EPISODE IV: Dantooine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tamer than the last chapter by a country mile: warnings for implied/referenced/imagined sadism, a bit of violence (both real and imagined), fragmented thoughts and a tonne of jealousy issues, but nothing as explicit or sexual as the last chapter. The calm before the storm, as it were.

Dantooine is not the worst place they’ve gone to so far, which is about all that can really be said in its favour. It’s… well, _boring_. Grassy plains. Maybe two buildings bigger than the _Ebon Hawk_. It’s not as tense as Onderon, the wildlife isn’t nearly as vicious as Dxun’s, and the locals might hate Jedi but aren’t as aggressive about it as the locals on Nar Shaddaa.

Atton has to admit that maybe he’s being affected a little more by this whole Force thing than he thought he was. A month or so ago he’d have killed for Nar Shaddaa to be this boring.

Right off the _Ebon Hawk_ they find a battered protocol droid attempting to do the rounds of the landing pad. It mentions the Sith and the Exile takes notice; unfortunately, the net result is not what they were hoping for. One memory-overflow error later and the droid jolts into service with a chipper, ‘Greetings, Jedi! Welcome back to Dantooine.’

Atton winces at the dreaded J-word. Across the pad, a mechanic stiffens and rapidly makes his way towards them. ‘Hey!’ he shouts, brandishing a beaten-up hydrospanner like a laser pointer. ‘Did that droid just call you a Jedi?’

The Exile shoots him a withering glare. ‘No. You must be mistaken.’

‘May I be of further service to you, Jedi?’ the droid chirps. If it wasn’t so broken-down already Atton would suspect it of being suicidal.

The mechanic’s eyes widen in horror.

‘The droid is _obviously_ malfunctioning,’ the Exile snaps. ‘Do I _look_ like a Jedi?’

The man eyes them up far longer than necessary before shaking his head. ‘Well… I suppose not. Your eyes aren’t glowing and you don’t have horns sticking out of your forehead.’

Bao-Dur almost looks offended. Mandalore, on the other hand, has to hastily fake a coughing fit, especially since the Exile is not only clad in their usual black robes but has the hilt of their double-bladed lightsaber poking out of their belt. Atton’s just glad the man isn’t looking at Visas, who actually has a hand on the hilt of her saber, or Kreia, who couldn’t look more like a Jedi if she tried.

(He, at least, wears Jal Shey armour and his lightsabers are securely stashed. He’s too used to running quiet to change his habits now.)

The mechanic shakes his head again. ‘Heh, crazy droid… sorry for being jumpy. We just… hate the Jedi, here.’

‘I can see,’ the Exile replies drily, ‘and I completely understand.’

‘Oh, don’t get me started! I got too much work to do to stand around and rant about the damned Jedi. Talk to anyone ‘round the outpost if you want more – they’ll chat your ear off if you let ‘em.’ With a final grumble he turns and heads back to his speeder.

‘I suppose at least they are easily fooled,’ Visas mutters. She slides her own saber a little deeper into its holster.

‘No kidding.’ The Exile rubs the bridge of their nose but still draws their robe closer. ‘Fine. Atton, Kreia, Visas, while we’re near the settlement, keep your lightsabers hidden. No obvious powers unless it’s absolutely necessary. Once we get further out, cut loose as needed, but I’d rather restock for base prices where we can. Do I make myself clear?’

The battered droid perks up again: ‘Greetings, Jedi! May I be of any further service to you?’

Their fingers twitch, but they do not draw their lightsaber. Atton would almost call it personal growth if it wasn’t for the order they just made.

* * *

Even as decayed as it is, there’s a haunting beauty to the Jedi Enclave’s ruined sublevel. The atrium is overgrown and it almost reminds him of one of the coreward garden worlds – flowing water, luscious greenery, and a misty haze just faint enough to not fog up visors. Only “almost” because there’s an awful lot of corpses scattered around, of both salvagers and laigreks, and their party wastes no time in adding fresh ones to the mix.

After their time on Dxun the laigreks are almost laughably tame even with Kreia, Hanharr, Goto and T3 remaining at the ship. There’s still a few close calls here and there – once one of the beasts stumbles into a failing power converter and sets off a chain reaction that nearly puts half the party flat on their backs, and another nearly sets off a mine that Bao-Dur is in the middle of disarming in its haste to attack him – but there’s plenty of loot to be salvaged and overall, things are easy. At least until they reach the Archives.

With a party of so many Force Sensitives it’s no surprise that they feel the man before the doors are even opened. What _is_ surprising is that he seems to be expecting it and – as the Exile approaches, lightsaber still holstered – he gives them a deep, genuinely respectful bow.

Atton immediately decides that he doesn’t like him.

The Exile raises an eyebrow. ‘I wasn’t expecting to find anyone else here… alive. Who are you?’

He doesn’t give anyone else more than a passing glance before locking his gaze on them. ‘I am an historian and scientist working for the Republic, although –‘ he gives a soft chuckle – ‘I am certain my contemporaries would judge me more a historian than scientist.’ His tone is measured and even and even without the big words he comes off as well-educated and well-behaved. It’s almost sickening.

‘And why are you here?’

‘Like you, I was looking for some trace of the Jedi. I had heard mention that one of the Jedi Masters had returned here but I have found no trace of them.’ His expression clouds slightly. ‘It is something of a mystery why they would exile themselves as they have. It is not the way of the Jedi to vanish in such a way… especially when the Republic is in such dire need of them. I fear that there may be something greater at work; something that we cannot see. Then again, perhaps the Jedi are hiding simply because so many people hate them these days.’

Atton doesn’t bother hiding his smirk. The scholar’s more correct than he knows: there is indeed something greater at work, though it’s rapidly being eclipsed by the Exile. Technically the Jedi are hiding because they’re hated but it’s not the general population they fear – it’s the Exile again. The _vanishing_ , however, he can gleefully admit to having a rather large hand in. Even being a Force user himself now hasn’t tempered his hatred of the Jedi. If anything, it’s intensified it; his own self-loathing mixes in and doubles down, muddying the waters so he can no longer tell whether he hates himself or the Jedi more, because they’re now almost one and the same.

The Exile sneers. ‘After the Civil War, I cannot say I am surprised.’

His expression darkens further. ‘The Civil War was named such was because few in the galaxy can recognize the difference between the Sith and the Jedi. To many they are both Jedi – just with differing philosophies.’

‘Doesn’t matter what colour the lightsaber is, it still cuts just fine,’ Mandalore comments.

Bao-Dur bristles. ‘But the Jedi have protected the galaxy for centuries. They seek peace, not war.’

‘Not always,’ the stranger muses, either ignoring or missing the warning glare the Exile gives the two men. ‘Jedi often fall and when they do, it can cause untold destruction. Revan and Malak were once Jedi Knights, you know. It is perhaps more amazing that some still trust in the Jedi after so many have caused such trouble. Especially with the proof that but a single Force wielder can change the face of the galaxy itself, and that is a frightening thing indeed.’

Atton thinks of Malachor V and Peragus II. One ended a war and started a second; the other will be responsible for the slow death of nearly twenty Outer Rim worlds. Both happened at the hands of a single Force wielder. Well – the Exile gave the orders but he and Bao-Dur were the ones who pulled the triggers. And now he and Bao-Dur are being trained in the Force by them. There is no coincidence, there is only the Force, indeed.

_– a cruel smile: “If they are not strong enough to handle it, then they have no business following me. Present company included.” A surprisingly warm, callused palm on his cheek; pinpricks on the back of his eyelids –_

Atton’s smirk disappears.

‘So you do hate the Jedi, then?’

‘Hate? No, I do not hate them. They only raise questions without answers. They are not supposed to be like the rest of us; they are supposed to see a higher purpose in all things.’ He laces his fingers behind his back. ‘And they are supposed to train students responsibly and well, so mistakes of the past are not repeated. Yet all I saw was ignorance and arrogance, and what those seeds created in the Republic. It is… difficult to follow the Jedi Code when so few others have.’ His gaze slides over the whiteness of their hair, the redness of their eyes, the darkness of their lips, and his jaw tenses. ‘But perhaps you know this.’

Atton upgrades “dislikes” to “hates”.

‘Perhaps indeed.’ They pause, take a step closer to him and then they frown. Around them the Force begins to twist with suspicion; Atton tenses, moves his hand to his holstered sabers, and Visas mirrors his actions. Bao-Dur (who has only just started training to wield lightsabers) folds his arms instead. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t. It is Mical.’

‘Hn. Mical. You look… _familiar_ to me.’

Mical takes a hasty step back, raising his hands defensively. ‘I – I imagine in your travels of the galaxy, you have seen many people. Faces tend to blur together after –’

‘No.’ With a gesture the Archive doors slam shut behind the party. Atton and Visas immediately draw and ignite their lightsabers; seconds later the rest of the party follow in drawing their own weapons. They’ve all travelled with the Exile long enough to know what’s about to go down, even if the Exile hasn’t actually drawn their own weapon yet.

Mical’s eyes widen. In surprise or horror, Atton can’t tell, but he doesn’t really care as long as the order to kill him comes soon.

‘I’ll ask you exactly one more time,’ the Exile says threateningly. ‘I said: you look _familiar_ to me. Elaborate.’ They don’t bother to verbalise the implied “or die”.

Mical grimaces and lowers his hands. ‘I… suppose there is little point in hiding it. You are correct; I look familiar to you because we have met before. Here, in fact. We met when this Enclave was still an active training-ground – only briefly though. You taught us the ways of the Force, how to hear it sing within others, within the life around Dantooine.’ He almost smiles, momentarily. ‘You were someone very difficult to forget. Even though you look – _different_ , now.’

Atton briefly recalls the first time he met the Exile, back on Peragus. It’s been so long now that he has to actually try to remember how they once looked – back when their hair had traces of blonde in it, when their eyes weren’t so red or shadowed, when their lips weren’t dark and their skin wasn’t nearly translucent. It’s less of a surprise than it should be to realise he actually prefers them the way they are now. Is that a side-effect of his new Force connection, a side-effect of the Dark Side’s influence, or just more proof that he was always a bit wrong in the head?

The Exile folds their arms and frowns, remembering. ‘Care to enlighten me as to what made me so unforgettable?’

‘It’s difficult to explain. Master Vrook – the one who brought me here – was knowledgeable, certainly, but he wasn’t a leader or a mentor. You were both. All the padawans could feel it. And I knew… I knew that if I were to have a Master, I would want it to be you.’

Atton upgrades “hates” to “ _furiously_ hates”. Even though it’s a little reassuring to know he’s not the only person to be drawn into their web so completely he hates, hates, _hates_ that this man – this weak, pathetic, not-even-a-Jedi man – would dare to think himself worthy of learning from the Exile. Would dare to think himself worthy of _anything_ to do with them, full stop.

He bares his teeth, shifts his weight to the balls of his feet, grips his sabers a little tighter.

Mical shrugs helpelessly. ‘But then you went to war. Many Jedi went to war, and the Masters proclaimed than you were all Jedi no longer. I knew that at that moment, that if you were no longer a Jedi, then you must have been correct – must _be_ correct. I realised that I no longer wanted to be a Jedi. I wanted to follow _your_ path.’ He almost smiles again; this time he does chuckle sadly. ‘In any event, there was no-one left to train me, even if I wished it. They all went to war. Then I grew past the age of acceptance and – well. I chose to forget.’

The Exile raises an eyebrow. ‘You turned away from the Jedi – from the _Force_ – because of me?’

‘It is possible to forget the Force, you know. If you have not felt it strongly enough than there is little to miss. And I never felt the Force as strongly as I did when I was with you.’

Atton is rapidly running out of levels of hatred for the man. If the Exile doesn’t order Mical killed soon he’s not sure he can restrain himself much longer.

( _that’s a lie and you know it; you won’t do anything without them ordering you to_ )

‘So I decided to serve the Republic – study the Jedi teachings. Gather them perhaps,’ Mical finishes dramatically, sweeping his hands across the ruined Archives. ‘It was important to me to understand the Jedi now that they were gone. I felt… some part of you should be preserved, so that your lessons would not be lost.’

‘As you can see –‘ they gesture to Atton and Visas, only slightly to Bao-Dur – ‘my lessons are far from lost. There is nothing to be gained in preserving the stagnant, weak teachings that remain here; the Jedi teachings failed you, as they failed me, and they deserve to be forgotten to time.’

Mical flinches as if struck. He opens his mouth as if to say something but apparently thinks better of it and shakes his head instead. ‘I… I suppose you would know better than I. If that is the case, then, why did you come searching for Jedi in the first place?’

To his surprise the Exile doesn’t answer “to kill them all”, but instead says, ‘To see if they knew how to sever a Force Bond.’

Right. _That_ thing. Much like the hag herself, Atton prefers not to think about it. It’s concerning that nobody knows if it’s lethal or not but truthfully he’s more jealous of its strength than anything else. He and Exile have developed a much weaker bond through his training and he suspects that they have similar bonds with Visas and Bao-Dur, but the bond between the Exile and Kreia is something that he knows he will _never_ have with them and he hates it.

‘A… Force Bond?’ MIcal asks, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It means I have a connection with another through the Force that could be lethal to us both. If she suffers, I suffer. If she dies, there is a chance I may die too.’ Their eyes narrow as Mical hesitates, again. ‘You’re thinking about something. Talk.’

He raises his hands placatingly. ‘I was trying to recall – I thought I had heard mentions of such connections in some of the holocrons, but unless I am badly mistaken they are amongst the ones that were taken from here, and I do not have them in my possession.’

The Exile tosses their head. ‘Well, _that’s_ helpful. Do you remember anything of use?’

‘Pieces.’ He raises his hands and ticks points off on his fingers as he speaks. ‘They are said to be formed when a Master and padawan establish a close connection, or in shared moments of death or near-death. The stronger one is in the Force, the stronger the connection is. It is said that some bonds could be strong enough to transmit images or concepts but they seem to mostly function with extreme emotional outpourings of fear or pain.’ He pauses, thinking. ‘I cannot recall if there were mentions of being able to transmit words directly, though I do remember mentions of using it to coordinate efforts in battle… without the holocrons, I simply don’t have anything else to provide you. If they were to be found, perhaps I could help you find the answers you seek. If you would have me, I can apply my knowledge and skills to helping you –’

Oh, no. No, no, _no_.

‘We’re full up already,’ Atton snarls. It’s not a lie; Mandalore’s arrival pushed their numbers higher than the number of bunks available on the _Ebon Hawk_ and it’s only the fact that Hanharr doesn’t _fit_ in a bunk that has let them avoid drawing up sleeping schedules. ‘We don’t _need_ anyone else.’

Especially not blonde-haired, blue-eyed, goody-two-shoes ex-padawans. Especially not _Mical_.

Unfortunately The Exile appears to be more invested in removing the Force Bond than annoyed at Mical’s sycophantic simpering and silences Atton with a warning burst of directed, burning irritation through the Force. ‘If you come along, you will have to pull your own weight.’

‘Addendum: And likely sleep in the med-bay,’ HK says, disgruntled, lowering its rifle. ‘Rhetorical question: Master, must you collect a follower from every planet we visit?’

A relived smile blossoms over Mical’s face as a furious scowl spreads across Atton’s. Everyone ignores HK’s interjection. ‘Thank-you – I will not let you down.’

‘Hn.’ The Exile looks him over critically then looks over the rest of the party, calculating, before shaking their head. ‘Let’s have you prove it, then. Collect what you wish from here and then return to my ship – the _Ebon Hawk_ – and wait there for my arrival. Everyone else: take five. Give no assistance.’

‘Query: What about harassment?’

They actually appear to consider it (Mical’s expression turns equal parts confused and concerned) before shaking their head again. ‘No. We still have half of this sublevel to clear and I want all of you with me.’

Atton retracts his lightsabers as an ugly, heavy feeling twists its way through his gut. He waits until Mical has collected his belongings and left (with yet another flourished bow) before he approaches the Exile, who is browsing some of the remaining texts. ‘You actually think he’s capable of getting back without a babysitter?’

‘If he isn’t then he wasn’t worth the effort of babysitting in the first place,’ they sneer. They look up from the decaying pages to fix him with an intense stare. ‘You don’t like him.’

‘Neither do you.’

‘I don’t have to like someone for them to be useful. Especially if I can push him into resuming his Force training.’

His hands curl into fists and he bares his teeth reflexively: _I will kill him first_ , his mind snarls. It’s not a conscious thought.

The Exile isn’t actively reaching out for his thoughts – he’d know; he’s become quite accustomed to the feeling of their mind brushing against his own during their training sessions – but the feeling is so strong, so violent that they don’t need to. Not at this range.

Their lips twist into a sick smirk. ‘Don’t tell me you’re _jealous_ , Rand.’

‘Of what?’ he snarls. ‘He’s a bootlicking little cur with no battlefield experience; he’d be useless to you as a padawan.’

‘On the contrary, I think he will be _quite_ useful to me.’ They toss the book to the ground without breaking eye contact. ‘After all, we’ve already established that physical punishments are of little practical use against you. Perhaps some competition will be more effective.’

His stomach drops. ‘But –’

‘Let me make myself perfectly clear.’ They reach out and grab a fistful of his robes. ‘You are _not_ to harm a single hair on that man’s head until I say otherwise. No accidents. No deliberate assaults. And no provoking another crewmember into doing your dirty work for you. Do you understand me?’

Their eyes glitter in the sublevel’s flickering light. The Force around them ebbs with cruel satisfaction, a sick and twisted miasma that churns his jealousy all the stronger.

He is replaceable. He knows this. He’s always known this. But he is _damned_ if he will be replaced by – by _that_ , of all men.

Atton grits his teeth. ‘Yes… _Master_.’

‘Good.’ They release him and turn back to the shelves, pulling another tome without even bothering to glance at the spine. ‘Continue to prove yourself, and should the time come that Mical is of no further use, I may permit you the killing blow. But until such a time I expect you to remember your vow to me… and obey my orders without question.’

The air thrums with the unspoken warning: disobey, and death will be a mercy.

* * *

Fortunately he doesn’t have to see Mical for quite a while after the confrontation in the sublevel. At the very back of the Archive are three bodies bearing lightsaber wounds – not any of theirs – and a datapad suggesting that Vrook has been captured as a result. The Exile immediately orders them to return to the strange holding area they found at the crystal cave. Not out of any _concern_ for the Jedi, of course; if anything, out of concern that someone else will kill him before they can.

Apparently being captured was part of Vrook’s “plan”, though, and their “rescue” ends ingloriously: Vrook catches them all in a statis field and makes a hasty exit. It does nothing to improve the Exile’s mood. Thankfully Azkul asking them to join in the assault on Khoonda _does._

The party sets to work undermining the settler’s efforts like a well-oiled machine. T3 and Goto get to work reprogramming the defending droids as Mandalore and HK clear the minefields; Atton jams the broken door open and helps Hanharr clear out the storage crates while Bao-Dur sabotages the turrets. Kreia and Visas see to it that the injured in the medbay will never make it out. The Exile sees to it that the hastily-assembled militia are as few in number and uninspired as can be.

Mical remains on the _Ebon Hawk_ throughout. Atton doesn’t care to find out whether it’s an act of protest or whether he’s just following the Exile’s orders far too literally.

Unsurprisingly, when the assault begins in earnest, Khoonda’s militia crumbles.

The outer forces are routed in minutes. Kreia is sent to lead the efforts to round up the hiding settlers alongside Hanharr and Goto; Visas, Bao-Dur and T3 are assigned to accompany a group of mercenaries in clearing out the rest of Khoonda. Atton joins Mandalore and HK in following the Exile as they hunt for Vrook.

Part of him is gleeful that out of all the Force users available to them, _he’s_ the one that the Exile trusts to take Jedi-hunting. Then again Bao-Dur isn’t yet strong enough to properly fight with the Force and neither Visas nor Kreia are front-light fighters like he is, so it’s probably less a sign of trust and more a tactical choice. He’ll choose to view it as the former, though.

It does little to make a difference. Vrook is an old and experienced fighter who has no qualms about fighting dirty against superior numbers; the very first thing he does is to catch everyone but the Exile in another kriffing stasis field.

‘I should have stopped you long ago,’ he snarls, lighting his saber. ‘Your machinations end here, outcast!’

The Exile merely lights their own saber with a sneer. Despite the stasis hold Atton can still feel a minor stab of annoyance – though it’s quickly overridden with bloodlust. ‘You’ve lived too long, old man.’

The Force ripples around him as he activates a barrier. ‘No more words. Defend yourself!’

And then Atton can only watch, frozen and useless, as the Jedi Master charges.

The Exile immediately goes for a bolt of lightning but Vrook catches it with his saber and shoves them back. They keep their footing and block his flurry of blows but even frozen Atton can see the way their teeth grit and their arms tense with each shot – they were a Consular, not a Guardian, and Vrook hits _hard_.

Vrook knows it, too.

‘Are you arrogant enough to think you can divide your attention while fighting me?’ he demands, as the Exile’s gaze flickers over to their frozen followers.

They bare their teeth. ‘Your form is about as subtle as – a charging boma. I will show you – how it is done.’

The Exile draws in their breath for a scream and Vrook instantly presses; he feints them with a jab before catching them straight in the stomach with a kick, sending them sprawling back across the reception area. They snarl and send their saber whipping across the room as they scramble to their feet. Vrook ignores it and leaps over to them. His first blow burns out what remains of their shields and a spike of fear radiates through Atton as his second catches them across their back. It’s a strong enough shot to knock them down again, sliding and tumbling over the tiled floor, and their saber clatters to the floor on the far side of the space as their concentration is broken.

Even through the stasis Atton can feel his heart pounding. This can’t be happening. It _can’t_ be.

– _see the light fade from their eyes, see the last breath tremble from their chest, see them die at someone else’s hands –_

‘You think you can learn my technique just by watching me?’ Vrook says, striding over to them. ‘It takes a Master years to perfect it.’

They refresh their shields and whip a Force tendril for his ankles. It doesn’t knock him over – he’s too strong for that – but it does make him stumble, giving them enough time to roll twice and pull their lightsaber back to their hand, just in time to catch his next assault.

‘It takes years for the Jedi to learn _anything_ , restrained as they are by the Code,’ the Exile spits. With a feral snarl they launch their own flurry of strikes. It’s not as coordinated as Vrook’s, not as hard or fast, but the form is unmistakable.

Even surprised, Vrook still blocks every shot. His scowl deepens. ‘You must be stopped.’

They draw back a hand for another bolt of lightning.

Vrook doesn’t block this one, but tanks it and pushes through. There’s a split second of surprise in their eyes before he swipes his lightsaber across their chest. Even caught in the stasis Atton can feel the thrum of Force behind the blow and the Exile is sent flying back yet again, shield generator completely destroyed, with a deep gouge seared in the front of their armour.

No. _No._

Atton tries to shout, to scream, to do _anything_ but the stasis field is stronger than anything he’s felt before. He can barely move his eyes let alone his head or hands; he can only watch on in silent horror as Vrook strides once more towards the Exile’s prone form.

Before they can grab their saber Vrook pulls it away, sending it skittering across the floor out of reach. ‘This ends here.’

They’ve got to get up. They’ve got to stop this. _He’s_ got to stop this.

_(they are **mine** , not **yours)**_

Atton draws in every last scrap of power he has and then, when that still doesn’t break the stasis, keeps drawing – like a hull breach in the vacuum of space, pulling in more and more even though it feels like his heart is going to explode. He has to break free. He _has_ to.

Fear is rising through the Force, muddling the mind-numbing fury and pain already radiating from the Exile. They push themself to their elbows, spitting blood defiantly to the floor as they take another deep breath. The scream causes Vrook to wince – but it doesn’t stop him.

Something twinges in his eye and Atton’s vision hazes over with red. Something wet trickles down his cheek but he can’t move to wipe it off, can’t move to get over there, can’t move to do _anything_. His body feels like it’s vibrating he’s filled it with so much Force energy but he’s still pinned – still frozen – still _useless_ –

‘It’s a shame,’ Vrook says, drawing back his saber for the final blow. ‘You could have been the best of us. Instead you’ll die here, little more than a mercenary’s lap-dog, with nobody to come to your aid.’

His heartbeat is thunder in his ears. Blood is trickling from his eyes, his nose, his mouth; he can’t pull anymore. He’s at his limit. If he pulls any more it feels like he’ll explode – a one-man supernova, a living grenade.

But he will _not_ let them die here. They are _his_ to protect, he will _not_ let them die, _not to someone **else** –_

Atton sucks in the deepest breath he’s ever taken and pulls, hard. Agony rips through his chest, his throat and he screams – raw, bloody and feral – as the Force erupts from what feels like every pore of his body at once. Lightning rips from his fingers, a scream from his mouth, and the Force around him ripples and explodes outwards as he pushes every last scrap of energy he has _outward_.

The stasis field holds, trembling, for an awful moment – and then shatters.

His vision goes white but he blinks anyway, forcing himself to see through the Force maelstrom around him. He’s collapsing – slumping to the ground, spent – but he can see Vrook’s figure stumble and turn, caught by surprise. No real damage. He had to pour too much energy into simply breaking the stasis; there wasn’t enough left over to actually hurt the Master.

But when Vrook turns to face him, the Exile draws their disruptor pistol and fires five rounds straight into the back of Vrook’s chest.

The last thing Atton sees before he hits the ground is a black-edged purple void opening, dragging the last fragments of Vrook’s energy from his fading body, and his consciousness fades to black submerged in warm, beautiful relief.

He did it. They’re okay. They’re _okay_.

* * *

The darkness is quiet, warm and comfortable in a way he hasn’t felt in years. Atton could easily stay there for the rest of his life. When he hears a familiar voice calling his name, though, he knows he has to follow it. Even if every inch out of the black feels agonizingly exhausting.

When he manages to force his eyes open, the first thing he sees is the Exile’s face. Three of them, in fact. All three look – refreshed, somehow? Not as brutalized as he thought they would be. Beautiful, as always; almost angelic in the flickering lights. Though that could very easily be due to how hazy his vision still is.

He struggles to understand what they’re saying; it’s like he’s listening to them underwater. The most he can hear is his name. ‘S… sorry,’ he finally wheezes – stars, even _talking_ hurts right now. ‘Can’t – hear. You.’

The three Exiles lean forwards and a single warm palm is placed against his forehead. His vision begins to clear as healing energy is pushed through the connection. It’s not much – they stop the flow after only a few seconds, just enough to get him down to double vision and light panting – but it’s more than he expects and it thoroughly confuses him.

‘Atton, you put yourself into Force _exhaustion_ with that,’ they say, their voice low.

He can’t quite figure out their tone. It’s not angry or disappointed, not quite surprised or upset. In his defence it’s actually pretty hard to hear anything over the pounding of his own heart in his ears at the moment. ‘Is that… bad thing?’

‘Only if you count almost _dying_ as a bad thing.’

‘Oh.’ He sits for a moment, head spinning. On a clinical level, dying scares him, but ever since he met the Exile he’s found other things to truly fear. ‘Uh… s’only almost.’

‘You’re an _idiot_.’

No arguments there. ‘But you’re… okay, right?’ he manages to ask.

‘…yes. Yes, I’m okay.’

‘Then… it’s fine.’ He closes his eyes (it doesn’t stop the world from spinning but it makes things a little less blurry) and leans back against the wall. ‘S’long as he’s… dead, and you’re… okay. It’s fine.’

They don’t respond to that. Another short stream of healing energy feeds through the warm palm on his forehead – enough to ease the vertigo and have him finally breathing almost normally, albeit still aching all over and physically unable to move. Eventually, after thirty seconds or a few hours, they stand and move away from him to deal with whatever else is happening, and Atton lets himself just rest against the wall.

As long as they’re okay, everything is fine. Even if he almost had to kill himself to do it.

(Much, much later, he thinks things over and is less fine with the idea than he was at the time, but only because his death would have meant he wouldn’t have been able to continue to protect them. It’s not like he really wants to live for _himself_ these days, is it?)

(Not that it matters to them. Not that he cares if it does.)

* * *

The party remains on Dantooine for several days after the mercenary coup of Khoonda. It would probably be longer but the Exile orders Atton to permit Mical to heal him – unsurprisingly for such a soft-hearted wimp the scholar is a skilled medic – and he begrudgingly acquiesces to the treatment.

He finds it infuriating that Mical doesn’t even _try_ to half-ass his work. He treats Atton with nothing short of an equal’s respect; no snide comments on Atton’s stupidity, no accidental needle slips, no reduced doses of painkillers. It’s sickening. More than sickening, it’s demeaning. Condescending. But the Exile ordered him to accept it so he silently adds to the list of reasons he hates the man and keeps his answers short and terse.

The Exile comes to see him once while he’s still bedridden. Just the once.

‘How exactly,’ they ask, after several minutes of uncomfortably heavy silence, ‘did you break that stasis?’

Atton shrugs. He’s still a little dopey from the last round of painkillers; everything feels heavy and sluggish, even his brain. Old habits die hard though. ‘Same way as on Dxun, I guess. Just bigger.’

‘You neither screamed nor shot lightning on Dxun.’

‘That’s why I said bigger.’

They sigh irritably. ‘The both of us know you aren’t an idiot. Those were three separate powers you drew upon and you drew upon them to the point of almost killing yourself. That kind of draw… that shouldn’t be _possible_ at your level of training. Even I would struggle to willingly exhaust myself like that. How did you push through?’

‘I don’t know.’ It’s the most truthful thing he’s said since arriving on this planet. He genuinely doesn’t know how he kept pulling when there was nothing left to take; he only knows why. ‘I mean – you’re the Master, here. You’re the one who knows all the Force stuff. Maybe I just kept pulling because I didn’t know I was meant to stop.’

The Exile sits down on the edge of the bed, arms folded and gaze piercing. ‘What did it feel like?’

‘Painful. Like standing in the afterburners of a capital ship or getting caught between gravity wells.’

‘But you didn’t stop. Why?’

_– they’re afraid, he can feel it; they’re going to **die** if he doesn’t **do something** –_

Atton closes his eyes and lets his head rest back on the pillow. Even just remembering that fight is exhausting. ‘Because you were going to die.’ When they don’t offer a response he adds, ‘I… panicked, I think. I just knew I had to break it and I didn’t know any other way to do it. Guess we got lucky that it worked.’

After a few more painful seconds of silence, the bed shifts as the Exile stands once more. ‘The Force,’ they say lightly, as they walk to the exit, ‘very rarely deals in _luck_. You did well. But never do that again.’

‘Never come that close to dying again and you’ve got a deal.’

‘That was an _order_ , Atton.’

He opens his eyes, meets their gaze. ‘So was mine.’

The Exile pauses in the doorway. They hover there for a moment, in the space between the med-bay and the hallway and it almost seems to Atton like they’re waiting for something. Or considering something. He’s on enough meds that reading the minutiae of their expressions is impossible for him; he can only stare without speaking as the light catches their cheekbones, brings them into sharp relief for just a second, just long enough to look almost hesitant for once.

Then the moment passes.

With a swish of black fabric they’re gone, leaving Atton alone in his convalescence.

* * *

The day before they fly out the Exile takes him to the garage and has him disassemble both of his sabers before kneeling in front of a small storage box.

‘Before we arrived on this planet, we had to make do with the crystals that we could find, but that is not the way one should build a lightsaber,’ the explain as they kneel down opposite him. ‘To be truly in harmony with your lightsaber, to wield it as an extension of your own body, you must be in tune with the crystal that forms its core.’

‘You’re saying one of these things is going to be _my_ new pet rock?’

‘Not to the same extent. _That_ crystal is… strange. Different. I doubt you will be so fortunate as to find one that resonates as strongly with you in this box, but I do believe that you will at least find something better than the hand-me-down scraps we’ve collected so far.’ They pull back the lid of the box. Inside lay dozens and dozens of crystals, in every hue and shape under the stars.

Atton whistles. ‘You went back to the cave, huh?’

A faint smirk twists their lips. ‘Amongst other places, yes.’ Then their expression grows serious once more. ‘Close your eyes and extend your hands. Feel the crystals through the Force. If any sing to you – take them.’

‘Singing crystals. _That’s_ a new one.’

They don’t smile.

Atton quickly closes his eyes.

At first he can’t feel anything. It’s a box of lifeless rocks; of _course_ he can’t feel anything. Especially not with the Exile kneeling so close by. In contrast to their cold demeanor through the Force they burn like a dying star, their heat washing over and fading out lesser sensations. No crystal could ever hope to compare.

But he has his orders. So he does his best to center himself – to ignore the pulsing, radiant light opposite him – and to feel for something far less desirable. Something far less important.

Huh. Maybe he should just put _them_ in his lightsaber. That’d work, right?

‘ _Focus_ ,’ the Exile says harshly. ‘Or you can make do with the scraps.’

Frowning, he reaches out for the box. The crystals aren’t as cold as he thought they would be. Some are cold – some feel almost like pieces of ice – but others are warm, some even almost moist, and the deeper he reaches the more he can feel the pulse of the Force within them. It grows louder when his fingers brush against a cool, heavy stone; it reaches a crescendo when his other hand closes around a sharp and frozen fragment that nearly cuts his palm.

The Exile hums. ‘Interesting.’

He opens his eyes. Unsurprisingly, the first crystal – the warmer one – is a deep and bloody red. The second is an almost sickly violet colour: not deep enough to be purple, not bright enough to be red, and fragmented with tints of black.

Atton raises an eyebrow. ‘What’s so interesting?’

‘They’re not what I would have imagined you would gravitate towards. A Kaiburr crystal –‘ they point to the slick, smooth red one – ‘does more to focus your insight and assist your Force control than assist in combat directly. The Hurrikaine is a little more what I’d thought – the blade it produces is devastating, knocking down what it doesn’t slice through – but it’s still… _blunter_ , I suppose, than I would have thought suited you.’

He shrugs. ‘Just following instructions. These two were the loudest. Should I put them back, or –’

‘No.’ They replace the lid of the box and rise to their feet. ‘They clearly resonate with you for a reason; use them. Perhaps they see something in you that I don’t.’

He looks down at the two crystals, unsure whether to be annoyed or disappointed. It feels like he’s failed some unspoken test. ‘Has that happened a lot?’

‘Not particularly. Visas was drawn to a Velmorite crystal, which makes sense for her refined and speed-driven combat style; Bao-Dur was drawn to one that is commonly used in the making of ion weaponry and deals heavy damage to droids… Firkrann, that’s right. And Mical found one best suited for defensive purposes and deflecting fire.’

He grits his teeth. ‘So really I was just looking through the scraps anyway, huh?’

‘Are you saying you’re ungrateful for having a choice in the first place?’

‘No.’ It’s not really a lie; he is thankful to not simply be given leftovers. But it does sting that even Blondie got first dibs when _he_ was the one who almost killed himself saving the Exile’s life. ‘I just assumed that there was a pecking order to these things.’

They snort as they return the box to its place beneath the workbench. ‘There _was_ ; you were simply in no state to take your turn when it was time and I failed to see any point in delaying the others.’

It’s an annoyingly practical answer. It still feels like an insult.

Atton remains silent as he carefully installs the new crystals into his blades – the Kaiburr to his short blade, the Hurrikaine to his main blade. They slide in as if they were designed for the mounts and when he fires the sabers up he has to admit that – disappointment aside – wielding them does feel smoother now, somehow. Easier. Even if the jagged edges of the violet blade make it look like he’s tearing the air asunder with every movement he makes.

A thought occurs to him. ‘You only mentioned one crystal for the others. So nobody else is training to dual-wield?’

‘No. Mical is training the double-blade but the others are content to focus their attentions on single blades for the time being.’

‘Of course he is,’ Atton grumbles, retracting and holstering his lightsabers. ‘Sycophantic little prick.’

The Exile folds their arms and raises an eyebrow. ‘Big words, Rand. Do I need to remind you of my orders?’

‘Hey, I’m not harming him. Just pointing out that _he_ wasn’t the one who nearly killed himself to protect you.’

The heat drains from the air around them almost immediately. ‘No, just the one that patched you up after you were done playing the hero.’ They _sound_ irritated but he can’t feel it in the Force. Not emanating from them, anyway.

He scowls. The Exile hasn’t yet come close to thanking him for saving their life and while he didn’t exactly expect flowers and a get-well-soon card, he at least expected a little gratitude. Recognition, at the very least, beyond a blunt and insincere “you did well”. ‘You’re saying you’d prefer I let Vrook kill you?’

‘I’m saying I’d prefer you take a less self-sacrificing route next time. What are you, a Jedi?’

He give a sarcastic bow, flourishing his hands overdramatically. ‘My life for yours, _Master_.’

To his surprise their face contorts in an ugly snarl. Something dark and ugly lashes out in the Force then constricts in around them, wrapping them in layers of cold, seething frustration. ‘You’re an _idiot_ ,’ they spit.

‘And you’re the one that trained me this way. I wonder what that makes you?’

They draw their hand back as if to strike him; he doesn’t flinch, and they don’t follow through. Instead their fingers curl into a fist and they snarl, ‘Perhaps someone better suited to teach someone like _Mical_ than an idiot like you. At least I can _discipline_ him when he speaks out of line.’

His own ugliness spills out into the Force now, too, surrounding him in a wash of furious jealousy, sick fear and other, twisted, nameless things. They see it – they _feel_ it. He can feel the smugness before it’s even reached their face and right here and now he _hates_ that Force-damned bond. ‘You wouldn’t –’

‘Wouldn’t I? You know _nothing_ of what I would or wouldn’t do.’ They lower their hand and turn on their heel with a sneer. ‘So mind that tongue of yours, before it earns somebody _else_ the treatment you want.’

In his mind’s eye he sees his own blood dripping onto the cargo-bay floor, feels the hunger burning through the Force and through his core, _tastes_ the fear and arousal thick in the sweat-damp air. Then the view shifts, as if he’s standing in the doorway, and instead of him it’s Mical being held at knifepoint – Mical who the Exile is standing over – Mical who is eager, and good, and _not ugly like you_ –

With a mighty effort he swallows down the Force-scream building in his chest. His hands are shaking; scratch that, _he’s_ shaking. He hasn’t been this angry since… he doesn’t know if he’s ever been this angry. But the _Ebon Hawk_ is not a large ship and the last thing he wants is for the Exile to know _exactly_ how deep their words are cutting him because – the sadistic little shit they are – if they know how much it hurts him, they’ll be sure to do it again.

Instead he forces himself to wait until their footsteps have faded off toward the port dormitory, takes a further count of three, then whips around with a feral growl and Force-slams the entire kriffing workbench to the far side of the room. Tools and parts scatter across the floor but he’s already on the move. He doesn’t follow the way the Exile left but he stalks deeper into the _Ebon Hawk_ , towards the engines, where the background noise muffles his footsteps. He turns left at the main intersection and pauses there, in the shadows of the hallway by the external lift, for just a short while.

Mical, occupied with organizing the med-bay, doesn’t notice him.

Atton’s not stupid. He knows he’s far from the only apprentice the Exile will ever have; they took Visas under their wing before he had even been reintroduced to the Force and he knew they were working on Bao-Dur since Dxun (even if the Iridonian only started training properly around the same time as Mical arrived). But he hates, hates, _hates_ that Mical is now an apprentice like him.

Part of it’s jealousy, yeah – he’s not naïve enough to deny that. He’s jealous that the man knew the Exile before he did. He’s jealous that the man already knows how to meditate properly and picks up the Light-er powers quickly due to his past padawan training. He's jealous that the man isn't ugly like he is - unscarred, unsullied. It’s _more_ than just that, though.

He hates the adoring way Mical watches them when he thinks they aren’t looking. He hates the worshipful, almost pandering way that Mical listens to them speaking and ordering the crew about. He hates the bootlicking, sycophantic, downright _weak_ way that Mical doesn’t even _try_ to properly defend his own beliefs against the Exile’s biting comments – but most of all he hates that the Exile isn’t content to merely make him _compete_ with the man but to antagonize him with his presence. And he _loathes_ that he can’t simply cut the scholar down and be done with it.

It’s been a very long time since Atton imagined taking his knife to a Jedi for no reason other than to kill them. Revan had them learn quickly to never kill without trying to break the Jedi first; needless death was punished harshly back then, especially so if you were found to have taken _pleasure_ in it.

But Atton still finds himself lingering in the hallway and half-heartedly imagining flaying Mical alive with blunted vibroknives, imagining running lethal electric currents from tongue to taint, imagining ripping fingernails and toenails and teeth and _bones_ with little more than pliers and good old-fashioned brute force, and he finds it harder and harder to come up with reasons to stop. Sadism’s fine if he’s not getting sexual pleasure out of it, right?

Right?

( _they are yours to protect_ )

( _you are_ _theirs to hurt_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Mical. I always felt kind of sorry for him; he's not necessarily a bad character, just... well, he's not Atton, and even with the restored content mod he's a bit of a one-dimensional kind of guy. I've been trying to force myself to finish my light-side, low-Atton-influence playthrough so I can get the extra scenes (plus the twisted ending and the Cupid's Rifle achievement...) but _god_ it's hard.


	5. EPISODE V: Korriban

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: violence, extremely dubious consent/no initial consent, rough sex and a little bit of breathplay/choking.

Korriban, to put it mildly, is an absolute shithole of a planet. Malachor V would almost be a more attractive option. Except apparently Lonna Vash is here – somewhere amongst a ruined academy, pre-looted tombs, desiccated corpses and goddamn _giant invisible dragons_ , what the _hell_ – and it’s not like they have any leads remaining to the lost Council members.

At least Kreia refuses to step foot off the ship. Thank the Force for small mercies.

Halfway up the path to the abandoned Academy, the breeze shifts and Atton nearly gags. ‘What _is_ that _stench_?’

‘It’s the scent of death,’ Mandalore intones dramatically. ‘And overpopulation. Also shit. It’s coming from that cave up ahead.’

Bao-Dur pokes at a nearby, slightly-less-desiccated corpse. ‘Shyracks. Probably a nesting ground.’

Mandalore grunts in disgust and raises his rifle as a pair of said pests emerge from the gloom. ‘Not even worth hunting. I’m voting we skip it.’

Atton sends his short lightsaber flying in a wide, looping circle as Mandalore fires a series of precision shots at the beasts. He’s about to voice his support for the idea when the Exile suddenly speaks up: ‘We’re going in.’

‘Really, General?’ Bao-Dur asks plaintively. Atton would be more sympathetic of him if Bao-Dur weren’t so reluctant to actually _use_ the lightsaber he carries instead of punching things. Well – he’d understand Bao-Dur’s reluctance, anyway. He’s not sure he can do the whole sympathy thing anymore. If he ever could do it at all.

‘Yes, really. There’s something in there.’

‘Better not be any more historical artefacts, or Blondie’s going to want to set up a whole kriffing campsite once he’s finished with the valley.’

They give Atton a steely glare but it lacks conviction. Mical’s interests have worn thin on them too, it seems. ‘Whatever we find, we take back with us. One pass only. Move out.’

* * *

He knows that they’re rarely wrong, but even still, this is more than a bit of a surprise. ‘I don’t believe it. _Another_ tomb?’

‘Untouched, too, by the look of it,’ Bao-Dur murmurs. His forehead, which has slowly been fading to red and black like the rest of him, crinkles as he attempts to move closer to investigate. ‘I… I can’t go any further, General.’

Mandalore growls as he too is buffeted back. ‘You’re not the only one. Sithspit, this place is _dark_.’

Despite himself, Atton tries to take a step beyond the threshold too – just to be sure. The sensation brings up memories of early training sessions with the Exile on the Ebon Hawk: pushing, straining, only to come up woefully short. ‘What… what _is_ this place?’

‘Somewhere I must go.’ They walk forwards unhindered. ‘Alone.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Clearly not.’ They roll their shoulders, crick their neck. ‘Head back to the ship; I’ll return once I’ve cleared it out. We’ll sweep the Academy ruins later.’

Cold fear seizes his throat; something he hasn’t felt for a long, long time. Something _bad_ is in that tomb. He knows that seems ridiculous given the mannerisms of the one who’s entering but some things defy the simple notions of “good” and “evil”, and whatever’s in that tomb is one of them. _Danger_ , his subconscious says, and he’s inclined to listen to it for once. ‘But there’s no point to it. Best case you’ll find a bunch more shyracks, maybe a few decaying robes –’

‘My mind is made up.’ They glance over their shoulder at the party. Not in concern, just resignation. ‘I will be quite fine. If you’re really so determined to be of use, see if you can scavenge anything useful from the valley by the time I return.’

‘Don’t have to ask me twice,’ Mandalore says, snapping off the messiest salute he’s ever seen. If sarcasm came in military spec, the man would be a bona-fide laureate.

Bao-Dur hesitates but eventually nods as well. ‘I suppose there is little to be gained by us waiting here. We’ll clear out whatever shyracks we find on the way out, General.’

He wants to say no. He wants to say that he’ll wait here until the galaxy dies if it means he knows they’re safe. Instead, Atton shrugs and takes a step back from the tomb’s door. ‘Makes sense to me. Be careful in there, all right? That place gives me a bad feeling.’

The Exile gives him a humourless smirk. ‘When has anywhere we’ve gone _not_ given you a bad feeling?’

‘Don’t know. When has anywhere we’ve gone not resulted in attempts on our lives?’

‘Point, Rand. Don’t step in anything too unpleasant on your way out.’ And then before he can respond they’ve disappeared into the tomb’s enveloping darkness.

He waits until he can no longer hear their footsteps before turning to follow Mandalore and Bao-Dur out of the cave.

Every step feels wrong. Not in the classical sense either; they make their way back to the entrance in about half the time it took them to reach the tomb in the first place. The shyrack population is decimated at best (if not completely eradicated at worst) and it’s a clear run to the _Ebon Hawk_ from the cave’s entrance.

Which is why Atton surprises himself by planting his feet, steeling his resolve, and gripping his lightsabers like they’re leading him to salvation. ‘I’m heading back in.’

Bao-Dur frowns. ‘She ordered us to go back to the ship.’

His collarbone twinges with phantom pain; it’s almost like getting cut fresh again. Looks like Kreia wasn’t kidding about the Dark Side running through the planet’s core. ‘Yeah, I know.’

‘We couldn’t even enter the tomb.’

He scowls. ‘Yeah, I _know_.’

‘So what, exactly, are you hoping to do by disobeying the General? It’s not as if she’ll need our help to clear out a few shyracks on the way back.’

‘Piss them off, I suppose.’ He tries for a shrug but can’t quite bring himself to be that casual. He doesn’t notice if the Iridonian pays any attention to his correction. ‘There’s just… I don’t know. Something’s telling me I need to go back in.’

Mandalore stiffens. ‘An attack?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. It’s like – that tomb’s a magnet. It’s calling me.’

‘Ah. Force-related, I assume.’ There’s a faint note of jealousy in Bao-Dur’s voice – Atton’s far from the only one of their party that has been receiving instruction in the ways of the Force but he’s the only one who seems to have any real talent for it. At least the darker aspects of it (except for Visas, obviously, but she's not _really_ an apprentice like the rest of them). Probably something to do with the others still stubbornly clinging to the hope of being good people despite the trail of destruction the party leaves behind them. Something about inner conflict, or not being able to tap into one’s full potential, or whatever other mumbo-jumbo bullshit the hag mutters about under her breath. He couldn’t give two shits about Bao-Dur but he takes a sick delight in knowing that Mical will never be as strong an apprentice as he is. Not without sacrificing everything of himself that remains, at which point Atton wins anyway even if he doesn’t end up cutting the historian into pieces.

‘Probably,’ he kind-of-lies. ‘Keep an eye on the comms. If we’re not back by nightfall, grab the carpet and HK and come looking for us.’

‘We’ll just bring the droid,’ Mandalore says, already turning on his heel. ‘The Wookie smells bad enough already.’

With a faint chuckle, Bao-Dur follows Mandalore down to the valley without looking back.

Atton watches to make sure they’re gone before he heads back into the cave. He’s pretty sure neither will think about turning back but he wants be to absolutely sure that nobody’s following him. He’s not really sure why. It’s not like the Exile’s ever shown real interest in any of them, least of all him (he’s not so narcissistic as to think the traded barbs count as flirting on their end, nor to think that the session on Dxun was anything but stress release for them even though he still kind of hopes otherwise). He still wants to be the only one to see them when they exit the tomb, though - and he absoultely does not want Mical coming anywhere _near_ the place.

Returning to the tomb takes maybe five minutes at best. There’s a literal trail of corpses leading directly to the door. He still can’t cross that threshold and there’s no sign of anyone having exited so, lacking anything more useful to do, he sits down and attempts to meditate.

It’s not his most successful attempt. Not even top five and that’s saying something since he’s not sure he’s even hit double digits yet. There’s too many distractions. Shyrak cries still sound from deeper in the cave system, the wind groans through the various holes and crevices of the area, and he swears he hears the hum of a lightsaber from deep in the tomb more than once.

He’s still not sure why he’s here.

That’s a lie, really; he needs to know they’ll be okay. He’s their main apprentice now, their loyal student and servant, but before any of that he was their silent protector and no matter how far he falls they’ll never stop being his number-one priority. His life has _meaning_ now. It’s not the meaning he ever thought it would have but at this point he’s fully committed and in way too deep to back out now. If he’d known just how bad things would get, he thinks he would’ve asked to be left in that holding-cell back on Peragus.

Except that’s also a lie. From the moment he saw them he was determined to follow them to the ends of the galaxy. It might’ve been the confidence, it might’ve been the underwear – it doesn’t really matter. He’s been under their spell long before they regained their full strength and there isn’t a Force power strong enough to deter him now. If literally being tortured didn’t deter him, what hope does anything else have?

The only question that remains is why he still stays silent (beyond the obvious answer of “they’ll put a lightsaber through my skull if I say it out loud”). He doesn’t think they’d actually kill him over it, he’s too useful to them, but he would probably lose his spot as their main apprentice. They might turn their focus onto Bao-Dur or worse, Mical, and he doesn’t know if he could cope with that. Not without murdering the bastard anyway, at which point they might just kill him out of annoyance.

It's probably a Sith thing. Jedi don’t do emotions and Sith don’t do “healthy” emotions. He’s not about to argue that the sadism is unhealthy – not these days, not anymore – but there’s no real emotions involved in that. Not the kind he’d like to express for them, anyway. Given how poorly they’ve reacted to his lighter indiscretions in the past he feels pretty safe assuming he’ll get a violent response at best, and not the kind he might actually enjoy.

Besides – while he serves them, it’s easy to keep himself in check. It’s easy to rein himself in with that spectre of hope hanging over him (no matter how faint it may be). If he no longer has a reason to hold back… well, would he even care anymore? Would it _matter_? Would he _want_ to hold back, if they no longer had a use for him? His life has no other purpose anymore. If he was of no use to them, if he was no longer wanted or needed…

_(see them bleed, see them gasp, see them **die** )_

He shakes his head, tamps down the whispers. It’s pretty easy since they don’t bring the same hunger that they usually do. Probably the planet’s influence, or else this damned tomb. Maybe also the fact that here and now he _doesn’t_ want to kill them so it’s easy to keep the whispered urges of violence separate from his enjoyment of it.

He manages a few short, stuttered attempts at meditating beyond giving up in disgust and simply staring at the tomb door, waiting for something to happen. They’ll either come back or they won’t. He’s screwed either way.

Sometime between twenty minutes and three hours later his “concentration” is disturbed by familiar footsteps. The Exile’s walking fast – furiously fast – and they’ve stormed a fair distance past the entrance before he manages to rise to his feet and get their attention.

‘I thought I told you to return to the ship,’ they snap, but they’re not really looking at him. They’re looking beyond him, to the tomb. Like they’re waiting for something to chase them out.

‘Figured you might need a hand carrying loot.’ It’s not really a lie; he can see several bulges in their pack as it is.

‘Maybe, but I ordered _you_ to return to the _ship_.’

He shrugs. He’s not feeling casual, not by any means, but he shrugs all the same. ‘Never been good at listening to orders. _Master_.’

Their gaze finally snaps off the tomb to him. They almost look – scared, somehow, in addition to the annoyance – but that can’t be right, and he discards the thought as soon as it arises. They’re not scared of him. They weren’t scared of him when they first met and although everything’s changed since then, nothing’s changed since then. ‘I should throw you down that chasm.’

‘Should’ve done it back on Telos. It might’ve stuck back then. What was in there?’

‘What?’

‘What was in the tomb?’

They lick their lips. There’s no saliva on their tongue.

Atton takes a step towards them. They don’t react. ‘What was in the tomb?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘You’ve said that before and been wrong. Try me.’

They lick their lips again. Their gaze drifts back to the tomb door, and it’s somehow the most infuriating thing he’s seen on this planet. Even more so when they say, ‘Just visions.’

‘Oh. _Just_ visions.’

‘Did I stutter?’

‘No, just looked like you’ve seen a Hutt in lingerie.’

They don’t even scowl at that. Something’s _definitely_ wrong. ‘I told you –’

‘And you’re lying.’

‘What do you want to hear?’ they snarl. ‘Visions. Ghosts. Hallucinations. None of it was real anyway; what’s it matter?’

‘It’s got you more spooked than I’ve ever seen you.’

‘You’ve known me, like, four months.’

‘And I didn’t exaggerate.’ He grabs for their wrist, forcing them to meet his gaze. There’s definitely fear there. It’s not fear of _him_ but it’s fear nonetheless and it’s enough to almost make him afraid himself. Damned Force Bonds. With every passing day it seems the link between him and Exile grows stronger; it's still nowhere near the level of the one that binds them and Kreia but it's certainly more than it once was. It's rare that it annoys him but he's still more than a bit pissed off by Dantooine, so it annoys him now. ‘So tell me. What was in there?’

‘You.’

Well. That’s not the answer he was expecting. ‘Huh?’

‘I said: you.’ They haven’t thrown off his grip yet. ‘You, the others, Malak, Revan – so many people. Most of them long dead. None of them real. So tell me –’ their voice wavers, just for a moment – ‘and be honest. What do you think of Kreia?’

‘We should’ve spaced that old witch on Peragus.’

‘Why?’

At least, he thinks, they’re not disagreeing with him. ‘She’s a bad influence. She’s dragging you down a dark path.’

They give him a look that very clearly says, _I was murdering people **long** before she got involved._

‘I’m not talking good versus bad or Sith versus Jedi or anything like that. She’s – I don’t know how to word it. She’s _dark._ She’s dragging you into something bigger. Something only she knows about. She wants you for her own purposes and doesn’t want you to know what it is until it’s too late.’ He’s blabbering, he knows this, but the words have been building up for months and now that they’re loose, there’s no holding back. ‘She’s ready to sacrifice you, you know? She doesn’t – she doesn’t care about you. She doesn’t give a shit if you live or die as long as it fits with her plans. You’re nothing more than a pawn to her and I – I _hate_ it.’

‘So you do think she’s a Dark Jedi?’

‘From the first time I saw her.’ When they fall silent and look back to the tomb, he pushes further. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You said the same thing in there.’

Given he’s not managed to set a single toe in the tomb yet, he’s more than a little surprised to hear it. ‘What?’

‘The vision of you. You – Kreia was there first. She said I must face the present. Then you appeared, told me to get away from her, said she was a Dark Jedi.’

It doesn’t sound like something he _wouldn’t_ do. But that equally doesn’t sound nearly traumatic enough to have rattled them so fiercely. He’s been literally tortured at their hands, for crying out loud – what does a hallucination possibly have to threaten them with? ‘Sounds about right. And then what?’

‘I killed her.’

He can’t have heard right. ‘You… killed her?’

‘I mean – I knew she was a vision and I knew _you_ were a vision but – once she threatened you with her lightsaber –’ They’re gesturing at the entryway now, as if the tomb itself is to blame. In a way it kind of is. ‘The others appeared to support you but it didn’t matter. Once she drew her lightsaber on you I’d already decided – she would die for it.’

Their voice is almost trembling. Only almost. Not completely. For anyone else it’d be an underreaction; for them, it speaks volumes, and every last word in those volumes is terrifying. Whatever’s got them scared is bleeding through the Force around them because he’s almost ready to start shaking too.

He manages to reign in his emotions to try to calm them down. ‘It doesn’t matter though, right? You said it was just a vision. I mean, I’m still here –’

‘Of _course_ it was just a vision, but that doesn’t matter! I was ready to kill her just because she was going to kill you and –’

And it all clicks into place.

‘Even with the Force Bond?’ he asks. Casually, like they just walked out of any other tomb on the planet. Like they haven’t just witnessed themselves nearly commit suicide over a hallucination. Like they’re not looking anywhere but back at him.

A flush of furious colour steals across their cheeks. ‘It was just a vision.’

‘A vision you were prepared to kill for.’

‘It was instinct.’

He can’t argue that killing isn’t an instinct for them. But he knows now why he was drawn back here, why the tomb called him back and had him wait for them, so he argues all the same. ‘Normally your instincts won’t get you killed. You were ready to _die_ because that old scow threatened me.’

They snarl, baring their teeth. Still not looking at him. Still not facing the present. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I do that on occasion.’

He could drop it. It’d be easy. Fall silent, offer to carry some of the loot, follow them back to the ship like a lost gizka. Maintain the status quo. Risk nothing, gain nothing, lose nothing.

Instead Atton tightens his grip on their wrist. With his other hand he grabs them by the throat and shoves them up against the cave wall. They’re unquestionably more powerful than him with the Force and definitely the more practiced in lightsaber combat but he’s both taller and physically stronger than them; they’re not escaping his grip unless they fry him or he releases them.

They grunt in surprise as they’re pinned against the wall. On apparent reflex they grab at the hand around their throat and then – _finally_ , once they register exactly what’s going on – they meet his gaze. They’re still a little spooked but it’s pretty effectively being overridden by confusion. ‘What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?’

‘Making you face the present.’

‘You’re not a vision.’

‘No,’ he agrees. ‘So kill me.’

They blink. Their mouth opens, then closes, then they blink again. ‘What?’

‘Did I stutter? Kill me. If you can, that is.’

‘You’re insane.’ They make a feeble attempt at pulling his hand off, then a feebler attempt at twisting their neck free. ‘Atton, let me go.’

‘You’ve killed people for far less than this. Why not me?’ He starts squeezing their throat – not too much, not enough to actually hurt them properly, just enough to show that this isn’t just another hallucination. Enough to make them a little light-headed but not enough to interrupt their breathing.

He’s not prepared for how difficult it is to stop himself squeezing harder. He doesn’t want to hurt them, not permanently, but feeling them strain against his grip is intoxicating. Not to mention _incredibly_ arousing. He kind of hopes that they like it as much as he does but he also kind of doesn’t care. He’s pitched himself wholesale off the cliff-edge, gone screaming past the event horizon; there’s no coming back from this. Either this will end better than his wildest dreams or it’ll end with his body left here to rot, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

He’s taken their lessons onboard _far_ too well. They’d be proud, probably, if it wasn’t their throat in his hands.

They hiss and try to knee him. He blocks them with his own knee and shoves his weight against them so they can’t try again. They’re warm and surprisingly soft; he’d always thought they’d feel hard and sharp, like everything else about them. Maybe it’s the robes they’re both wearing. Maybe it’s just how hard the rock wall of the cave is behind them, making them seem soft by contrast alone.

‘See,’ he says, leaning in closer still, ‘I don’t think you _want_ to kill me, even though my hand’s around your throat. And I think you’re _afraid_ of that.’

‘I’m _afraid_ that if you don’t let go of me _right now_ I’m going to turn you into a charred smear on the floor,’ they snarl. Flecks of spittle land on his lips, on his teeth. Their pupils are blown out and he can feel them breathing hard against him. Maybe they _do_ like it. He wouldn’t put it past them, not after Dxun. He can still feel the scars on his collarbone throbbing.

‘So do it, then.’ He shifts his weight a little, grinding his hardening cock against them through his pants. If _that_ doesn’t get a violent response, nothing will. ‘Better make it fast, though. You look far too good with my hand around your neck.’

They laugh hollowly. ‘Is that what this is all about? You actually need death threats to get off?’

‘Seems that’s more your thing right now.’

‘You _stupid_ fool.’ They let go of his wrist and grab a fistful of his hair. Pain pricks his scalp as they forcefully drag his head to the side. Not actually _away_ from them, he notes, almost as an afterthought. ‘You think I don’t know that you can’t kill me? You’re just as weak as I am.’

And there it is. They’re not afraid of him; they were never afraid of _him_. But the teachings of the Jedi aren’t something so easily shaken off. Not even after a destroyed planet, a probable shift in identity and losing then regaining their connection to the Force.

Words have power, indeed. He hates how right the old hag is sometimes.

‘Weak?’ he asks, slowly pressing his thumb into their carotid artery. The flutter of their eyelids sends a wave of heat through his stomach, straight to his groin. ‘You think me not being able to kill you makes me weak? I thought you stopped being a Jedi a long time ago.’

They jerk his head forwards and snap at his ear. There’s a flash of sharp, searing pain and then he lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a hiss as their tongue begins to trace the rim. ‘I _did_ ,’ they whisper, their voice raspy and deep.

‘So then you should – _hn_ – understand that it’s not a weakness.’ He grinds against them again, harder and heavier, pleased when they push back against him. ‘Killing someone you love is easy. Sometimes even easier than killing a stranger. Shit, I’ve thought about killing you more than once since I met you – you can be _such_ a pain when you put your mind to it.’ He crushes his hand almost shut, just long enough to make them gasp, then relaxes his grip once more. ‘But you’re right – I can’t do it. I want you alive. I _need_ you alive. Not because I can’t live without you, or because I couldn’t bear to see anything happen to you, or anything as pathetic as that. I can’t kill you because I _want you to live_ , for no reason other than my own selfish desires. I want _you_ , alive, so that I can have you. Call it selfish – it’s selfish. I won’t deny that. But it’s not _weak_. You make me strong; so much stronger than I could ever be on my own. I’d fight for you, kill for you, _die_ for you. And though I’m not stupid enough to think I’m anywhere _near_ as powerful as you are… I like to think that I make you stronger, too.’

And he waits for the inevitable bolt of lightning, or the Force-backed shove into the canyon, or even simply a far-too-calm order to stand down while they decide what to do with him. He’s not stupid. They covet strength above all else and they were a Jedi longer than they’ve even _known_ him; he’s not overcoming those years of programming so quickly. He’s not _them_. He can’t do that kind of shit.

But they pull his head in again and this time meets his lips with their own, hard enough to bruise them both.

Some vague, annoying part of his mind wonders if choking and death threats in a cave outside a haunted tomb are a normal preface to a Sith relationship, or if the two of them are an entirely different kind of fucked up.

Then they’re opening their mouth, and there’s _tongues_ involved, and Atton elects to ignore the bigger questions in favour of more immediate ones. Like whether he can split their lips before they break his, or whether it’s worth freeing their wrist in exchange for getting his hands onto something softer and more responsive to his touch.

He’s still going to suffer for this. He’s not _that_ stupid. But he’s not about to let something so trivial take away from his enjoyment of the present. Not when it’s everything he’s wanted for the last few months.

‘Idiot,’ they hiss, when they finally break for air (he’s certain the progenitor of that breath-control technique never meant for it to be used for something like _this_ ). They let go of his hair and drag their hand to his chest, leaving scratches down the length of his neck. ‘You could be used against me.’

‘Won’t let it happen. I’d sooner die.’ He kisses them again, harder this time, and releases their wrist to work his hand down the front of their pants. There’s a smart comment in there somewhere but at the moment he’s feeling far more vindictive than clever and – by the _Force_ , they’re wet. And warm. And pulling him free of his trousers like their life depends on it.

Good to know he’s not the only one who classifies choking as foreplay. Hopefully they’ll teach him the Force variant ahead of schedule, or maybe some finer-grain control of the lightning. There’s a few fantasies he’d dearly love to realise and more than a little payback he’s got planned for that session on Dxun.

‘Make me scream,’ they pant, as he works their pants down single-handedly, ‘or you damn well _will_.’

Atton thinks it would be far more threatening if they hadn’t just admitted they don’t want to kill him. Then again he really, truly does not give a fuck about anything beyond getting as deep inside them as possible as soon as he possibly can – and he’s good at following orders when they get him what he wants – so he pauses only long enough to find an angle, then buries himself to the hilt in them against the cold cave wall.

They don’t scream but it’s not far off the mark.

He doesn’t wait for them to adjust and starts thrusting, hard, spurred on by their half-snarled threats and the fingers scratching blood-trails across his neck, his face, across his back and his flanks beneath his shirt. When he finally lets go of their neck to lift their legs for a deeper angle he can almost see his fingerprints in the pale skin at their neck and a surge of satisfaction fuels his next deep drive. This time they _do_ scream. It’s raw and primal, cracked around the edges, with almost enough force to knock him to the floor. But his own control is long gone and their ankles are locked somewhere behind his back so he staggers, but stays upright, and his thrusts become almost painfully frenzied as he seeks his own release.

They scream again but it isn’t until they choke out his name – _fuck, yes, oh fuck, **Atton** – _that he finally comes, their voice the only thing he can hear as his vision turns white and his body shudders mindlessly inside them.

They’re a Sith Lord in all but name and he’s their strongest apprentice so between them, somehow, they remain upright, panting hard against each other. Every now and then someone trembles – sometimes them, sometimes him – and it takes longer than it should for him to collect his thoughts. It’s their fault, really. They are _incredibly_ warm. Maybe that’s why Dark Jedi eyes are tinged red; they just run hotter than Jedi do. Force knows he’s never fantasised about a Jedi the way he fantasises about them.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, he’s the one to break the silence. Some things don’t change. ‘Guess you’ll have to kill me another day,’ he says, and risks taking one last rough kiss from them before he pulls out and lets them return their feet to the ground. Cum drips from them like a short-lived waterfall and he watches, satisfied and with more than a few ideas for the future in mind, as they dig the mess out of themself with a soft hiss of overstimulated pleasure.

A swipe or two later they reach out and grab the edge of his shirt. For a moment he’s seriously worried they want more – not that he’s not keen on the idea, far from it, but there’s _got_ to be more comfortable places on this planet to fuck than the wall of a shyrack-infested cave – but instead they merely rip a strip of fabric off (‘Hey!’) and begin cleaning themself up. ‘That’s a dangerously high bar you’ve set.’

He eyes his ripped shirt sourly. It’s only a token response, though; the afterglow is simply too good. ‘I’ll just have to get a bit rougher next time then, won’t I?’

‘If you don’t, I certainly will. I recall you quite enjoying that kind of thing.’ They discard the soiled fabric carelessly (some poor future archaeologist is going to have a field day with _that_ ) and begin fixing themself up properly.

‘Only when it’s you,’ he says, and it’s true.

‘Hn… I like that. We’ll have to step up your lessons, I think. Maybe some more private tutoring sessions.’

‘Maybe some soundproofing, too… or a really good gag.’

‘When is screaming on a Sith’s ship _not_ expected?’

‘Usually,’ he says, returning his softening cock to his trousers, ‘it’s coming from the interrogation chambers, not the cockpit.’

‘The medbay has a lockable door too. _And_ it has a bed.’

‘Big talk coming from the one who demanded to be fucked against a cave wall. What, do you want Blondie to watch or something?’

They laugh – a full, rich sound that catches him off-guard with its levity – and catch him by the chin for another bruising kiss. ‘Don’t give me ideas, Rand.’

He growls.

They smirk.

When they make it back to the _Ebon Hawk_ , he’s the one carrying their ill-gotten goods and they wear the marks on their neck as proudly as a royal wearing their jewels. No questions are asked. The Exile’s the boss, after all, and nobody’s entirely sure what they found in that tomb beyond that old sword and a few decaying relics that nobody cares about (except Mical, of course, but nobody cares about him either).

The party leaves Korriban fleeing an unfortunately familiar unkillable Sith Lord with only the coordinates for a new planet and a hold full of quasi-worthless junk to show for the venture. Plenty of new marks beneath his and their robes too, but neither of them bring those up when the party is discussing their next destination.

Atton eyes the scratches and bite-marks on their neck and thinks to himself that maybe – just maybe – it’s okay to be a monster sometimes. When it’s asked of him.

( _just don’t ask me to stop_ )

* * *

It quickly becomes an open secret of sorts – everyone more-or-less knows what’s going on but nobody’s going to be the one to actually confirm it. Either they’re not willing to risk a violent response (Mical, Bao-Dur, Visas), they lack the awareness to realise what’s going on (the droids and possibly also Visas), they think it’s normal behaviour for a master and apprentice (definitely just Visas) or they simply don’t care enough to ask (Mandalore, Hanharr and almost certainly T3, because that goddamn trash compactor is far smarter than it lets on).

Kreia glowers at him far more than she usually does. He takes a petty kind of glee over her near-total lack of control over him. She tries to play it off as if it’s still there, like she did the last time, but they both know differently now. _He_ knows differently now. And the Exile listens to _his_ opinions first now, not the old hag’s. Well… mostly, anyway. He’s much less worried about losing control these days, is the point.

Apparently she and the Exile have _words_ concerning him at some point. He and the other Force-sensitives can feel the turmoil strongly against the backdrop of hyperspace. He never finds out exactly what was said; he asks them, once, and their only response is to snort and dismiss the question with a curt, “She’s more of a Jedi than she pretends she is.” Further attempts to pry are diverted with an _incredibly_ rough face-ride but it’s not like Atton really cares what Kreia thinks of them anyway.

Atton modifies the cockpit door to be relatively soundproof and adds a rudimentary first-aid kit to the stash beneath his pilot’s chair. Other things too, of course, but the first-aid kit at least prevents the need for an embarrassing run to the medbay when someone goes overboard. Restraint is not something that either of them are good with; even if they do sometimes bother with a safe-word, neither of them are particularly willing to use it.

It's probably better that way - nobody's risking death for being unable or unwilling to stop.

* * *

Somewhere in hyperspace on the way to the droid planet, HK-47 corners him in the garage and flatly declares that his sensors have been picking up hypersonic resonance at _incredible_ levels from the cockpit and asks – no, _demands_ – to know how meatbags can be made to scream so effectively. Or, at the very least, what holovids Atton is watching so that it may research in its own time.

Bao-Dur quickly leaves to help T3 “check on the engines”, wheezing under his breath.

Atton waits until the aftermath of their next session to tell them about it. They’re slumped comfortably across his lap, having ridden him hard enough to bruise his ass against the seat of the chair, and they chuckle when he tells them that HK’s analysis of his knots was “ineffective, focussed on presentation over restraint, and not nearly as agonising” as the droid had hoped for from an ex-torturer. They actually laugh when he gets to the part where HK _finally_ realised what all of Atton’s “torture methods” were being used for and declared that both Atton and the Master were vile, sick meatbags (which it still begrudgingly approved of, even if it found it both illogical and disturbing that they preferred to focus said sickness towards each other instead of their enemies), and that it was never stepping foot in the cockpit again.

They say they’re almost tempted to order it to use its new learnings on their next target, just to see how uncomfortable it would make the rest of the crew, and as he watches them laugh he’s seized with a deep, soul-burning adoration for this violent, murderous force of destruction that pulled him out of the aimless existence he was living before Peragus.

They kiss him deeply – it’s pretty gentle, no new cracks on his lips, just deepening old ones – and though his fingers leave crescent-moon bruises on their back in response, Atton knows he couldn’t be in worse trouble if he tried.

He’s never been so okay with that in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite Korriban being the Dark Side planet, I figure the intrusive thoughts would be a bit quieter than usual because between the planet's influence and Atton finally caving in a bit, they're less "intrusive" and more "normal". As he slips further and further beyond where he used to be, the line blurs even more than it already has.


	6. EPISODE VI: M4-78 & Onderon, Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: moderate non-sexual violence, dubious/no consent, sexual violence, throat/face-fucking, bondage, sadism, masochism, D/S elements, rough sex, blood/knife/scar "play", humiliation, threats of death during sex, really unhealthy relationship dynamics, kiiind of roleplay? I'm not sure they can tell the difference anymore. Basically it's the worst parts of chapters 3 and 5 blended together, then made even worse somehow.
> 
> Again: from the standpoint of safe/sane/consensual, this is very, _very_ bad BSDM.

Whatever Atton had expected upon hearing “droid planet”, M3-84… well, is pretty much exactly like he’d imagined, except worse. _Everything_ is artificial. If he didn’t know better he’d say the whole thing had been built from scratch. As it is he’s still not entirely sure that the protocol droid at the door is being honest when it says that there really is still dirt and earth down below them somewhere, but he much prefers that over the idea that this entire thing was droid-made.

Visas has a much easier time believing it; without another member of the (living) crew around the Miraluka is almost completely blind. ‘There is no _life_ in this place,’ she complains over-dramatically. Atton supposes she’s trying to look out over the horizon for effect but she’s actually staring at a landing-bay pillar instead. Nobody bothers to reorient her, though Mical looks moderately guilty about it. ‘It is more dead than the world of tombs. Everything below the sky blends into itself; there is electricity and metal, nothing more, not even in the breeze.’

‘You do all right on the _Hawk_ ,’ he points out.

‘There are more living than droids on the ship. It is also somewhat smaller than a planet. Surely even your limited senses can tell you that?’

‘It _is_ much easier to sense everyone else here,’ Bao-Dur admits, before Atton has a chance to snark back. ‘It’s like searching for a fuse in a box of wires. It might be obstructed somewhat but once you’ve found it, it’s almost impossible to lose.’

Mical nods. ‘It probably helps that there’s nobody else _to_ sense. That droid was saying all the settlers died days ago.’

‘Yeah, what with that _convenient_ radiation leak.’

Mandalore sighs irritably. ‘Flyboy, if they truly wanted the colonisers dead there would be far simpler means of doing so. Just ask the rust-bucket; he won’t shut up about it.’

‘Irritated statement: I said that there would be _cleaner_ means of doing so, not _simpler_ ,’ HK grouses. ‘And I should have kept my vocabulator muted so that the Master would have let _me_ resolve the issue instead of that rolling trash compactor.’

Bao-Dur grins slightly. ‘At least you’re allowed off the ship without an escort. Goto’s still sulking in the common-room.’

‘Statement: I suspect that the fat one _also_ wishes that he kept his vocabulator muted. Amused addendum: Though I did enjoy the Master telling him that if even a single one of the droids here began exhibiting signs of Exchange support, they would destabilise every planet in the Outer Rim before heading coreward.’

Hanharr scrapes one of his blades along the ground in boredom. It sounds like the bastard offspring of fingernails on durasteel and a high-pitched drill. ‘<<Hopefully this world will smell more like death before we leave it. It is too clean, too pure as it is now.>>’

It’s rare that Atton agrees with the walking carpet but he definitely agrees with him on that. Quiet is acceptable. Boredom is not.

‘Pure isn’t the word I’d use,’ the Exile announces, stalking into the conversation as if they’d always been present. ‘Sterile, maybe. Moot point; there’s not enough blood. I have a few ideas to resolve that.’

Excitement ripples across the assembled group. Except for Mical and perhaps only mildly for Bao-Dur, but Atton suspects that’s mostly because they – like him – know that it’s more likely than not that the blood the Exile’s talking about is almost guaranteed to come from the four apprentices before anyone else. Especially on a planet of droids.

‘Let’s hear it, then. Who’re we killing?’ Mandalore asks, hands drifting towards his battle-rifle. As the only non-Force sensitive, non-servile organic sentient on board, Atton doesn’t blame him too much for being quick on the draw.

‘Actually,’ they say, _far_ too casually, ‘I want to use this as an opportunity for a group training session. Visas, you’re excused this time, for obvious reasons. Mandalore, Hanharr, HK, if you wish to assist me, I suspect you’ll quite enjoy yourselves.’

Atton folds his arms and pointedly ignores the wary glance traded between Mical and Bao-Dur as Visas bows, makes another offer of her own life, then carefully makes her way back onto the _Ebon Hawk_. Group training sessions are usually a euphemism for “try to almost murder each other with some kind of limitation in place”. To date, though, the bouts have always been kept between the apprentices. No Mandalorians, no Wookies, and _especially_ no droids.

It’s a little cliché but there’s no other way to describe it: he’s got a bad feeling about this.

‘This training will be a test of both your stealth and your Force-sensing capabilities, made more interesting by the quiet of this place.’ the Exile says. There’s a far too familiar glint appearing in their eyes. ‘You three will receive a head start of thirty minutes; you may go anywhere in the area that isn’t irradiated to all hell and may use whatever equipment you like. After thirty minutes the hunt will begin.’

Ah. _Shit_.

Hanharr flashes a mouthful of brown-stained fangs and makes a noise similar to a garbage disposal. ‘<<I _approve_ of this kind of training.>>’

‘The aim is simple: either remain hidden until sundown or make your way back on-board the _Ebon Hawk_ without being caught. You’re considered “caught” if you’re returned to the ship outside of your own control.’

Mical frowns. ‘Not just if we’re seen?’

‘That’s hardly realistic. This isn’t a game of hide-and-seek.’ They glance over to the three other “hunters”. ‘If you wish to join in, keep it non-lethal. Try to avoid doing anything permanent – yes, HK, kneecap shots are considered permanent; we don’t have a kolto tank accessible. If they surrender, grant it, but do not release them unless they fight their way free. Team up if you like; I really don’t care.’

This is bad. Like, _really_ bad.

‘And us?’ Bao-Dur asks, with an almost hopeful glance in Mandalore’s direction.

‘Non-lethal as well. You may use your lightsabers but if anyone comes back without a limb I’ll be taking the donated replacement from whoever removed it. You could work as a team if you _truly_ wanted to, I suppose, but each of you succeeds or fails on your own. There will be no punishment for interfering with each other’s attempts. There _will_ be punishment if you are caught. And I will be among the hunters, so I would suggest you attempt to avoid conflict rather than seek it out.’

Krif, krif, _krif_.

Their grin widens to the point Atton could mistake them for a Maalras. ‘You have five minutes to prepare yourselves, and then we shall begin.’

* * *

Bao-Dur is fantastic at stealth but awful at sensing. Mical is the opposite; he couldn’t sneak past a dead cannock but he could say long it had been since the beast died without even blinking. Atton covers the overlap between them – he’s shit at both. This training session is practically _designed_ to screw him over.

Plus, he grimly notes as he scrambles up the side of a building, the Exile takes this whole “teaching” thing seriously, so he’s not about to get beaten if he gets caught. No, he’ll get to hold a drive core over his head for hours again, or scrub mynock crap off the hull. He’d thought that their relationship (he’s still not sure if that needs quotation marks or not) meant that he would be exempt from the less pleasant aspects of training… but instead he’s almost being treated _harsher_ than the other apprentices. No nepotism here – he’s training just as hard and twice as roughly as everyone else.

It’s good fuel for their sessions, he admits. Maybe it’s just a really convoluted and inefficient form of self-punishment on the Exile’s behalf. He wouldn’t be all that surprised.

The point is: he is almost certainly destined to wind up failing this training session and suffering (unpleasantly) as a result. He’s not happy about it.

He’s figured his best bet is to hide until sundown. Shifting positions is probably better but he’s banking on the other two trying to end things early and taking attention away from him; he’ll settle for finding somewhere that does at least a little to mask his presence from remote sensing. Somewhere dark, noisy and difficult to access. He’d prefer a large crowd but there’s no other (living) people on this whole damn planet so he’ll have to settle for the next best thing.

He aims for somewhere high, so that if the Exile breaks out their Force Sight he’ll at least have a shot of not being immediately spotted (that skill is _bullshit_ ; if it wasn’t almost guaranteed to get him spotted he’d use it himself. He’s inordinately glad Visas is not taking part in this session). At first he thinks a rooftop will be sufficient but then he spots an access hatch hidden on the side of an aircon stack and pries a little further. Down a ladder, around a corner or two and he finds himself near a generator of sorts. A loud, warm generator of sorts, that’s surrounded by nooks and crannies and _so_ many crevices to conceal himself in.

…though that wall is nicely bare. A few pipes protruding at a decent height with an empty space on the floor below; it’d be perfectly suited to chain someone up on.

Now _that’s_ a thought.

He eyes the pipes jutting out of the walls and thinks about the hidden switchblade in his boot. He considers the noise of the generator, the relatively hidden access panel and the many crevices to hide in. Finally he considers the ropes in his pack, the scars on his collarbone from way back on Dxun, and the vicious sneer on the Exile’s face as they told him that they’d kill him if he finished.

Maybe it’s time to do a little hunting himself.

* * *

He ends up waiting for the better part of an hour before the pinpricking starts behind his eyes. He’s not worried about being sensed – he’s running hyperspace coordinates as a shield and he’s found through trial and error that for all their powers, the Exile is not particularly skilled at tracking by the Force alone – but he is worried about being spotted, so he’s running a stealth field and hidden himself up high on the roof opposite the AC stack. The street below is out of sight so he can do nothing but wait and hope that they spot the clues he left.

When he hears the sharp hum of a lightsaber activating, he knows he’s got them.

Soft footsteps sound as they pad along the carefully-prepared trail he left behind. To the untrained eye it looks like nothing – an oily bootprint, a scuff-mark on a wall, a few threads of cloth caught on a hinge – but to the hunters it’s a neon-lit sign pointing them towards one of the three apprentices. Except that the clues lead directly to the generator access hatch instead of to where Atton is currently hidden.

He watches silently as the Exile follows his false trail to the access panel. They make a cursory attempt at popping the panel free single-handedly, discover that Atton made sure it wouldn’t come free without two hands and a significant amount of effort, then scan the rooftop before begrudgingly holstering their saber for a second attempt.

As the panel opens with a _click_ Atton launches himself down onto them, his knee in the centre of their back and one hand wrapped securely over their mouth. Before they even hit the ground he’s stabbed a modified medpack into their neck (he didn’t come prepared with sedatives but from his assassin’s training he’s well-practiced at making impromptu drugs from the various chemicals in grenades, mines and other such things). They struggle, of course, but between the shock of his assault and the chemicals rushing through their system it only takes a few seconds before the struggles cease.

He waits a few seconds, to be certain that the scuffle hasn’t attracted any unwanted attention, then bundles them up and gets to work with a grin.

* * *

To their credit, the Exile isn’t out for more than maybe twenty minutes but twenty minutes is far longer than Atton needs to get them stripped and restrained. He binds their wrists to a length of pipe jutting out from the wall (far more secure, for his money, than binding their wrists together), at a height that leaves them kneeling in front of the wall. Between their knees he jams a crude spreader – hastily assembled from a piece of rebar, ends only slightly blunted, held in place with the contents of an adhesive grenade and the remains of the rope. Off to the side he sets up the rest of his makeshift toolkit: a blindfold (the Exile’s belt), all the weapons both he and they were carrying and – slightly apart from the rest – the Exile’s disruptor pistol.

Then he settles himself by the opposite wall, trailing his fingers lightly over his still-clothed crotch, waiting for them to wake up.

When their eyelids begin to flutter he rises to his feet, balancing the emergency knife on the tip of his index finger with practiced ease. He lets them regain their senses in silence. One of the earliest lessons he learned in his time as an interrogator was the value of remaining silent; silence can’t be reasoned with or argued against. Better still it forces the victim to fill in the blanks themselves and the panic usually makes them come up with far more effective punishments than he ever could.

Well – back in the old days, maybe. These days he’s not so sure anymore. Though if anyone could come up with something worse than him it would definitely be the Exile.

‘Wh… what –’ they blink once, twice, then their gaze snaps into focus. ‘ _You_.’

He shrugs carelessly. He’s been grinning since he jumped them and that’s not changing now. ‘Who else?’

They pull against their bindings, try to rise to their feet but predictably get nowhere. Instinctively they try to close their legs but jerk them apart again with a short hiss of pain as the rebar digs into the soft tissue on the inside of their knees. A faint flush steals across their cheeks as they register their nudity. It deepens when they finally look back to Atton, who’s still fully dressed, with an obvious bulge in his pants.

Anticipation begins to thrum through the Force bond, tempered with just a hint of fear.

‘They’re still hunting you.’ They lick their lips; their gaze drifts to the knife on his finger, and they swallow. The now-familiar hunger weaves into the anticipation. ‘They’ll find us, and when they do –’

He flicks the knife up and catches it single-handedly, slowly walking towards them. ‘Nobody’s going to find us here. Believe me, I made sure of it. So, _Jedi_ –‘ he pauses, relishing in the disgust that crosses their expression at the word – ‘you and I are going to have a little _talk_.’

They raise their chin defiantly. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘By the time I’m finished, you will.’ He grabs them by the hair with his left hand, drags their face across his crotch, delights in the alternating desire and disgust that flickers in their eyes. Disgust with him or themself? He can’t tell and he doesn’t care. ‘So let’s start by laying a few ground rules, shall we?’

They bare their teeth. For a moment he thinks they might try to bite him but they think better of it. ‘Go to hell.’

He gives the spreader a kick; they choke out a short cry of pain as it breaks the skin on their left thigh. ‘Rule one: you don’t speak unless I say you can speak and when you _do_ speak, you must refer to me as Master. Do you understand me?’

‘Go to –’

He smacks them soundly across the face with the back of his right hand. It might bruise, it might not; he’s still got his gloves on so it’s hard to tell. ‘I _said_ : do you understand me?’ He raises his hand again threateningly, just in case the first blow wasn’t strong enough.

Their eyes flick to the hand before meeting his gaze. Raw fury smoulders beneath the surface. It takes them two, three attempts before they can force themself to actually say the words and when they do speak, it’s like they’re forcing out their final words: ‘Yes… _Master_.’

Sick satisfaction swells within him and Atton rewards them by grinding their face into his crotch. ‘That’s _better_. Now, rule two: you will obey all orders that I give you. Disobey and you’ll be punished however I see fit to. Do you understand me?’

Their voice is muffled but the sardonicism is no less present. ‘Yes, _Master_.’

‘Hm. I don’t like that tone, schutta. Repeat that – but mean it this time.’

Fury spikes through the Force bond and Atton has to stop himself from backhanding them on principle. He has to remind himself that they haven’t actually spoken yet; he can’t beat them for what he senses they’re feeling.

Well – he shouldn’t, if only for the fact that it might set a very dangerous-to-him precedent for future sessions.

Through gritted teeth the Exile finally says, ‘Yes, Master.’

It’s not the first time he’s pulled that act but it’s the first time he’s pulled it on the Exile; there’s something about the fact that it’s _them_ calling him Master that makes it _so_ much more satisfying. ‘Much better.’ He briefly holds the blade between his teeth as he pulls his zipper down, letting his dick spring free to rest comfortably against their cheek; the hunger around them grows. ‘Let’s start with something simple then. Why’d you let me capture you?’

The anger that flares through the bond is genuine. ‘I did no such thing.’ When he lifts the blade they quickly add, ‘Master.’

He tuts as if he’s scolding a small child as he slowly drags his length across their face. ‘Lying isn’t a very Jedi-like thing to do. I’ll ask again: why did you let me capture you?’ He punctuates his demand by bumping his tip against their lips.

They try to turn their head away but his grip on their hair is too strong and so they snarl into his cock, ‘I _didn’t_ let you capture me, Master. I didn’t see you or I would’ve cut you down like a –’

Their sentence cuts off as he presses the blade to their throat.

A burst of fear spikes through the Force and it’s absolutely intoxicating.

‘You’re a liar,’ he says slowly, pressing the blade into their skin – not hard enough to cut but far too close to it for them to be sure of that. ‘You’re a filthy liar, little Jedi, and I have no interest in going easy on liars. One last chance before I have to get _rough_ with you… tell me why you let me capture you. Tell me why you gave up so easily. Tell me _why_ you submitted to me so easily, why you’re calling me Master so eagerly – or I’ll slice your lying throat.’ When they snarl he pushes his head against their teeth: ‘There’s only one correct answer here, Jedi. Tell me. _Now_.’

They try to run their tongue over him but he pulls back just out of reach. Close enough that he knows they can smell his musk, smell the tang of his precum, but not close enough to taste anything. ‘Not a chance. Speak and speak now before I leave you to bleed out in this hole.’ He slides the blade across their neck; a thin line of blood oozes down their pale skin and the Force twists around them, conflicted, torn.

He figured out early on that the Exile is less masochistic than him. They like pain, sure, but purely on a physical level; they’re not a self-loathing waste of space like him, who loves the punishment because it’s the least of what he deserves. They like the loss of control because it’s a novelty; he likes it because it takes away any sense of responsibility. They like being subjected to his whims because they know he’ll get them off too… whereas Atton just loves knowing they’re using him, loves knowing it’s only _him_ that makes them feel that way, loves knowing that no matter what he does they’ll always be the one holding the end of the lead.

But Atton was a sadist long before he was a masochist and _they’re_ the one on their knees this time, so he slides the knife a little further across their neck and drags the blade back through the welling blood. Just to hurry them up a bit.

With gritted teeth and real, raw fury in their eyes they meet his gaze and say, ‘I call you Master because you order me to. I submit because you order me to. I gave up because – because –’

‘Say it.’

Their eyes blaze defiance. ‘Because you’re a sick, twisted fuck and –’

He backhands them with the knife-hand, hard, and before they can catch their breath he grabs their chin and forces their jaw open. ‘Wrong answer.’

Without giving them the opportunity to react he shoves his cock in their mouth, down their throat, and he groans as they buck reflexively against his grip. He holds there for a short while – several long and uncomfortable seconds of the knife sitting dangerously close to their right eye he sits hilt-deep in their mouth, their throat convulsing around him – and then pulls out just as roughly as he entered, letting them splutter and gasp beneath his grip.

‘Now,’ he says, wiping his newly slick cock across their face, leaving a glistening trail of their own spit across their cheeks, ‘let’s try that again. You gave up because?’

They take a ragged breath and rasp, ‘Because you – you caught me off-guard and –’

Another backhand, another hard thrust and near-choking. When he pulls out this time he tightens his grip on their hair. ‘I’m growing tired of your insolence. Answer me, Jedi, or I’ll start making my _own_ holes in your pretty little face. Tell me why you gave up.’

The Force bond pulses heavy with eagerness, with anger, with hunger. Their voice is already hoarse and straining. ‘Because you overpowered me. You were better than me. You – you _beat_ me. Master.’

He holsters the knife in his belt. ‘Good,’ he says approvingly, and jams his thumbs and forefingers either side of their mouth as he shoves their head back against the wall. ‘Now open wide.’

There’s a split second of something akin to shock before he thrusts in and then there’s nothing over the bond but that familiar burning hunger shot through with stuttered bursts of pain.

Having already been in their throat twice he doesn’t bother to start shallow and sets a rough but steady pace, giving them the bare minimum recovery time between deep thrusts. He’s half tempted to move his hands for better leverage but the Exile’s a proven biter so instead he pushes his fingers apart, opening their mouth as wide as possible, and delights in the bubbling saliva that drips down their chin, creating strings of glistening slick between his sack and their face with each pull and thrust. Every time his head slides past the back of their throat they convulse, spluttering. Tears bubble in the corners of their eyes but he doesn’t pull out or hold back – it’s just a reflex. Sooner or later he’ll have fucked it out of them so he’s determined to enjoy it while it lasts.

As their throat begins to relax the Exile’s gaze drifts to meet his. Their eyes are hazy, lust-drunk from their own desires and the Force-magnified emotions streaming from him. _Stars_ , do they look good crying. He really should do this more often.

It doesn’t take long before the warmth in his core approaches untenable levels. They’re already pinned against the wall so he keeps his fingers in place and with a final hard thrust Atton hilts himself and holds there, groaning at the frantic thrashing of their tongue against his shaft, the constriction of their trachea around his head, the panicked tattoo of their heartbeat echoing through their neck and the Force around them as his orgasm pulses down their throat. He grinds once, twice, his balls smearing the Exile’s own saliva over their chin, and then pulls back to leave the last of his cum in their mouth (because he _knows_ they hate the taste). They spasm as his cock drags past their fading gag reflex and start coughing, hard, as Atton finally lets go of their face. Frothy spit mixed with cum slides down their neck. It mingles with the already-drying blood on their neck, sending foamy pale brown trails over their chest, down their stomach.

Atton slowly pulls at himself, riding out the last waves of his pleasure as he watches them splutter and choke. The Force bond is thick and heavy with arousal. Even when their face twists in disgust as they finally register the tang of his semen on their tongue, the bond still throbs with need.

‘Still able to talk?’ he asks casually.

They try for a venomous glare but between their own obvious arousal and the mess on their face it comes off as somewhat insincere. ‘Yes, Master,’ they rasp softly, between heavy gasps. Their gaze slides back to his softening dick and a flicker of confusion crosses their expression.

‘Good. I’m not finished with you yet.’

They briefly look excited before he picks up a Gand silencer. It’s a little shorter than the energy batons he’s worked with before but it’s got the highest stun potential and – something he didn’t think about of when grabbing it from the armoury earlier but certainly something he’s pleased about now – some slight ribbing on the baton end, up near the stun pads.

Yes, he’d have preferred a power supply and a set of jumper cables (if not a properly-stocked torture station and some real restraints) but he’s making the most of the tools he has at his disposal. At least he didn’t grab a force pike instead. That would’ve been incredibly awkward to use on them.

He holds the weapon uncomfortably close to their face before thumbing the trigger. A dull crackle sounds and a small spark flashes from the tip; they try to squirm away, their excitement now tinged with something akin to concern. ‘Do you know what this is?’

They nod, their eyes never leaving the baton.

‘Use your _words_ , schutta. Ever had one used on you before?’ It’s a rhetorical question; the majority of the weapons on the _Ebon Hawk_ have been looted from the corpses of their attackers and he’s well aware of just how many Gand the Exile mowed through in the Jekk’Jekk Tarr. Rhetorical questions, much like silence, have their uses though.

The Exile nods again and licks their lips, unconsciously grimacing as they get another taste of his cum. ‘Yes, Master.’

‘Tell me how. Tell me _where_.’

‘In battles. More planets than I can count. Used by bounty-hunters, mercenaries – tried to capture me. Master.’ Their gaze follows him as he picks up their belt; a spike of glee radiates through the bond. Atton’s sure that if he reached down between their legs he’d find them dripping.

He leans the baton against their chest as he fastens the impromptu blindfold in place. ‘I meant where on your _body_.’

‘Ah – arms. Legs. Head, once. Chest.’

‘What I’m hearing,’ he says, cuffing them across the head in mild rebuke as he picks up the baton again, ‘is that you had this used on you while wearing armour. In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re not wearing armour right now.’ He digs the weapon into their cheek then drags it down their neck and across their chest, keeping his finger on the trigger the entire time as they pant beneath his touch. He circles a nipple once, twice and then – without warning or care – triggers the stun-pads, directly on the peak.

They howl and buck hard, almost smacking their skull into the wall.

 _Force_ , he loves it.

He starts tracing again, delighting in the way they waver between pushing against the baton for contact and shying away in fear of the next jolt. He leaves their second nipple unmolested and traces lower, across their stomach, across their hip-bones; when it seems they’re more eager than afraid he raises the baton and sends another zap through their nipple again. This time they give more of a screech than a howl. The rebar clatters against the floor as they scramble for purchase and find none.

He could spend hours doing this, he thinks idly; he could easily spend the rest of the day with them here, tracing and teasing and torturing them in this little hell-hole he’s created. Except he _is_ still being hunted, technically, and even though he’s come once already he can feel himself starting to harden again, so the next jolt goes into the top of their thigh. Then one to the side of their hip, then one to the inside of their thigh, to their stomach, to the side of their groin –

‘Please,’ they beg desperately, as he rubs the baton against their mound. They rut their hips into it frantically, giving a keening whine when he pulls it away. ‘Force, _please_ –’

Atton drops to one knee to grab the rebar and lift it. Their feet scrape across the floor as their hips tilt up, exposing their slick sex to the world (he was right; they _are_ dripping). ‘Those aren’t the right words,’ he sneers, delivering a hard jolt to the back of their thigh. They contract their legs reflexively but he’s got a solid grip on the rebar; they shriek at the shock and then groan when the spreader scrapes deeper into their abused knees.

‘Ple-please _Master_ –’ Their sentence cuts off in a whine as he traces a languorous figure-8 around the rims of their holes. They twist and thrash, seemingly unable to decide between thrusting against the baton or trying to escape it.

Atton rests the tip of the silencer against the opening of their cunt. It’s a thick weapon, definitely thicker than he is but he’s confident they can take it. And if they can’t then it’s not really his problem, is it? ‘Please what?’

‘Please – inside – _need_ it –’

He drags the rebar higher still, until their knees are almost on their shoulders. Then – one hand on the rebar, one on the baton – he nudges the tip of the silencer past their lips, coating it in slick. They groan and try to push further onto it; when he acquiesces, starts to push it deeper, they whimper as it stretches them wide. ‘Atton – I _beg_ –’

He slides out just a little bit. ‘You asked for it,’ he says, then shoves it in deep as he pulls the trigger.

Their scream echoes through the Force bond, ragged and desperate. It’s the closest he’s ever been to coming from sound alone.

He thrusts the baton into them harshly. He doesn’t trigger the stunner every time; he lets them get close, lets them relax just a little before delivering another jolt of electricity deep inside them. Their muscles spasm uselessly around the baton with every shock. When the bond beings to throb with their imminent orgasm, sending phantom pulses through his own hardened cock, he gives a final deep thrust then rips the baton clear and delivers one final shock straight to their clit.

As they howl and buck wildly he tosses the weapon aside and lowers to kneel in front of them. He takes a moment to appreciate his work – they’re coated in glistening slick from their clit to the back of their crack, their cunt gaped and convulsing, desperate to be filled again – before he grabs their hips, lets the rebar rest across his chest, and ensconces himself in them.

But that’s all he does. As warm and wet as they are, as much as he wants to fuck them senseless he forces himself to hold still inside them – and with his grip on their hips, forces them to remain still on his cock.

He’s had weeks, almost months to fantasise about his revenge. Now that the opportunity is here, he’d never forgive himself for passing it up.

The Exile whimpers again, desperate and needy. ‘Atton, please –’

‘Shut up.’

‘I –’

He draws his knife, presses the tip underneath their left collarbone. ‘I said,’ he growls, as the bond thrums with surprise, ‘shut _up_. And don’t you _dare_ move, otherwise I’ll put the blade to your throat and finish what I started earlier. Do you understand me?’

They open their mouth to answer then remember his orders and shut it again. Biting their lip, they nod.

Atton grins. ‘Good. A little test, then.’ He draws back torturously slowly, pulls out almost entirely, then slides back in inch by grueling inch. Their legs tremble from the effort to restrain themselves; their panting grows frenzied, almost, and their walls constrict around him in an effort to get as much pleasure from him as they can.

They don’t move, though. Impressive. They must _really_ be desperate. It’s almost a shame he’s got no plans of rewarding such good behaviour.

‘It’s a good thing you’re so wet,’ he muses, as he takes a second slow stroke. This time he does pull all the way out and they whine at the loss of contact. Then he bumps the head of his cock against the pucker of their ass and the Force bond floods with a heady mix of fear-tinged disbelief. ‘It’s all the lube you’re getting. Don’t move now, hmm?’

‘Atton –’

He doesn’t let them finish before slowly – he’s not a _complete_ monster – pushing into them.

‘ _Haaa_!’ They pull back instinctively, trying to squirm out of his grasp but he’s already got his head inside them and between his grip, the knife and the rebar they can’t escape it.

Atton groans as he slides into them, as they cry out in tandem with the spike of pain through the bond, and keeps pushing relentlessly deeper until he’s sunk to his hilt in their ass. ‘ _Force_ , you’re tight.’

The Exile can’t speak. Their jaw works frantically, their mind overwhelmed; the bond is a mess of fury, desire, pain, delight and a thousand other emotions and sensations. They swallow once, then swallow again. ‘Att… _Rand_ –’

‘You moved,’ he says, almost casually, as he runs the blade along the underside of their collarbone. They cry out as the skin tears and try to twist away on reflex; he doesn’t move but their own motion has them push against his cock, which drags a hiss of pleasure from him and another cry of pain from their lips. Damp patches are starting to appear on the blindfold.

Atton pushes the blade deeper, forcing himself to not match the action with his dick, as he plays his trump card. ‘And again – what happened to following orders? You were doing so _well_. Don’t tell me you’re just a weak, pathetic Jedi after all?’

Over the pain comes an answering swell of rage. Pride comes before a fall, indeed.

He sits there for a short while as they choke down their sobs, chest heaving, glistening in adrenaline-heavy sweat and the tacky trails of their own blood. Some far-off part of his mind knows that he’s going to suffer for this in turn – if he’s sadistic they’re damn near psychotic – but he doesn’t care right now. He refuses to care right now. Right now he’s balls-deep in their ass, carving them up the same way they did to him on Dxun, and he’s going to enjoy each and every single moment of it.

He leans in and kisses them, hard, as he twists the blade one more time, suffusing the blade and the wound with a jolt of Force lightning. It’s not strong enough to properly hurt them – not compared to what else he’s doing to them, not with their own mastery of the Dark Side – but it _will_ leave a scar that no amount of Force healing will remove. A scar to mirror the one they left him on Dxun. It will leave _proof_ , proof that only he and they will see; a reminder of today every time they disrobe. No matter how faded and time-worn it gets, when they see it, they’ll remember this. They’ll remember _him_.

They involuntarily jolt at the shock, then whimper and bite at his lip; he merely chuckles as he finally removes the knife. ‘That’s what I thought.’ He lets it clatter to the floor as he grips their hips again and slowly – but not _that_ slowly; his own control is starting to waver – starts to fuck them, letting his arousal spill into the Force around them.

When he feels them start to loosen up, when slick begins to drip from their cunt again and they start to push back against his thrusts, he picks up the pace.

‘You – _hnn_ – _fuck_ ,’ the Exile hisses. Their head tilts back in a heady moan as he grinds against them. ‘Sick. _Sick_.’

Atton thrusts again, sharp and hard, earning a moan split between pain and arousal. ‘Is that _enjoyment_ I hear?’

Their answer is a keening whine, thrusting against him as much as their bindings will allow.

Perfect.

‘When did I say you could enjoy this?’ He continues thrusting, a little harder now, as he reaches for the final piece of his vengeance: the Exile’s own disruptor pistol. Safety on. Still loaded. ‘ _Answer_ me, schutta.’

‘Didn’t. _Master_.’

He pulls almost all the way out before driving back in to the hilt. He crushes his eyes shut as pleasure shoots through his groin, both from the physical sensations and the cry of aroused pain it forces from the Exile – yes. This is _perfect_. He drives in again, harder, faster, until the Force around him _hums_ with his burning hunger.

When they start panting again, their groans becoming pleas, he finally lifts the pistol. He shoves the barrel against their temple, hard enough that it might bruise; a tiny wave of confusion flickers over the bond before arousal sweeps it away again.

So he pulls out, _all_ the way out, and jams the pistol into them so hard it dents their skin. ‘That’s your own pistol at your head, Jedi,’ he snarls, flicking the safety off with a satisfying _snap_. ‘If you dare to finish –’ he drives back in without warning and they scream, sending another pulse of searing heat straight to his cock as he starts fucking them again – ‘I’ll _kill_ you.’

Their emotions are wild. He’s not sure they’re really hearing him anymore. But the glimpse of fear in the Force around them – the split-second instant of true, real fear – is enough that he nearly finishes on the spot.

Revenge for Dxun indeed. Except he has absolutely no intention of _not_ making them come. He wants to see them give in, to lose control, to honestly fear for their life before he releases into them and he has _just_ enough control left to do it.

So he doubles down and drives into them as if he’s trying to snap them in two. He pounds hard enough that it’s almost painful for him (never mind _them_ ) and clenches his fingers into their flesh like he’s trying to rip them apart. They’re screaming beneath him – pleasure? Pain? Both? Neither? – but he hears nothing approaching a safe-word so he doesn’t stop.

He’s not sure he could stop even if he did hear a safe-word.

The realisation makes him go all the harder, in the hopes of provoking one to find out.

He’s going to have bruises on his mound, he can tell. Not as bad as the bruises _they’ll_ have but _stars_ he’s going hard, harder than he’s ever gone in his life. The noises they’re making coupled with the sensations in his body are too much together; they’re writhing and pleading and bucking as hard as they can but they can’t stop him, they can’t stop themself and it’s intoxicating. He thrusts hard enough to damn near pierce right through them. Again, and again, and again –

They’re begging. It’s barely Basic and it’s not intelligible, just a stream of _please_ and _oh_ and _fuck_ and _Atton_ and a whole lot of sounds that aren’t even words. He doesn’t relent. He’s got just enough time and control left to break them and he intends to use every second of it. So he thrusts hard enough that it’s painful for _him_ – nearly enough to split them damn near in two – and sinks his teeth into their shoulder hard enough to break the skin as he reaches down to rub their clit with his free hand.

Three agonisingly deep thrusts later they buck hard and scream until their vocal chords give out. Their whole body shudders. They tense around him, pulsing, _squeezing_ , trying to milk him dry, and when he readies the pistol the air floods with fear –

Their blood leaks over his tongue, he thrusts in almost past the hilt and with a final groan he comes, spilling as deep inside them as he could ever reach. Each pulse fills them a little more, a little more until he can feel his load start to ooze back down over his cock inside them – at which point he grinds into them, hard, and they release a ragged gasp. ‘ _Haaa_ –’

He nudges the barrel against their temple, finger off the trigger. ‘Bang.’

A second passes, then two, and they slowly begin to wheeze. It takes him a few seconds to figure out they’re trying to laugh.

He kisses them roughly. He can still taste the faintest trace of himself on their lips. ‘Probably should’ve unloaded it, huh?’ he asks, as he takes one last grind into them (they moan delightfully as his cum is forced deeper inside; if he hadn’t already come twice he’d be sorely tempted to stay in for another round). After a moment’s deliberation he places his fingers on their throat and runs a gentle healing current to their vocal chords. He doesn’t have the patience to try interpreting vague Force emotions at the moment. More importantly he doesn’t think they’ll have the cognisance to emote clearly in the first place.

It takes them a few heavy pants before they try speaking. They still sound a bit raspy but at least they’re audible now. ‘It’s not like… big difference. _Fuck_.’

‘Eloquent.’

They laugh again, properly this time. It’s sick and twisted. He loves it. He loves _them_.

‘Going to… let me down?’ they ask, beginning to stretch against their bindings.

Atton reaches for their robe as he pulls out. He came deep enough that nothing drips from them for a few seconds – even then it’s slow, intermittent, like a leaky faucet. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he says, as casually as he can. The robe isn’t an ideal gag but it’ll do. ‘I mean, you _are_ hunting me. Letting you out would just be foolish.’

‘You’ve got a sick sense of humour.’ They don’t think he’s being serious; they’re still smiling, winding down from their high. They’re not even pulling against the pipes. Oh, are they going to regret that.

Atton silently praises himself for leaving the blindfold on them because he couldn’t hide his grin if he tried. Especially since he’s using their clothing to clean himself up. ‘I’m not joking. I’m fully aware that the moment you’re out of that setup you’ll come after me. No, no; I think you’re staying right where you are.’

Their smile freezes. ‘What?’

‘You heard me. I’m not letting you out.’

‘I swear if you –’

‘Don’t worry,’ he says mockingly as he roughly gags them with their own robe. They struggle but it’s a futile effort. ‘I mean, it’s pretty unlikely anyone’s going to stumble upon you back here. You’ll probably manage to get free before someone finds you. Or maybe you won’t and they’ll find you still tied up, your legs still spread open, my cum still spread over your body and leaking out of your worthless holes. Wouldn’t that be nice?’

The noises coming from behind the gag sound somewhat like his name and an awful lot of cursing. At his words, though, a scarlet flush runs across their cheeks – what little he can see of them, at least.

And here he was thinking things couldn’t get any better.

Although he knows the longer he stays the greater the chance he’ll get caught he can’t help but push his luck just a little for this. Scientific analysis to support future endeavours, as it were (and oh, how he’d _love_ to rub Mical’s nose in _this_ ). ‘I _saw_ that, schutta. Don’t tell me you _want_ someone to find you like this?’

They toss their head. The flush spreads.

‘Don’t tell me you _want_ someone to come along and see the cuts, the bruises, the _marks_ that I put on you and think you to be so _weak_ that someone managed to take advantage of you so viciously? Why… they might even _pity_ you.’

The muffled cursing intensifies. Yet their nipples are hardening again and it’s not like it’s cold in here.

Oh, he’s going to be using this against them for _sure_.

A sick grin twists his face as he zips up his pants. ‘Well, what do you know? You really _are_ a weak, pathetic –’ he roughly jams two fingers in them without warning, turning the muffled cursing into a high-pitched groan – ‘soft-skinned little whore. It almost makes me want to play with you some more… see how many screams I can wring out of you. But –‘ he pumps twice, hard, then pulls free and wipes his hand in their hair as they squirm uselessly – ‘I’m currently being hunted and I’d best be on the move. Don’t want to get caught now, do I?’

A vague Force tendril wraps itself clumsily around his wrist. He breaks it without a second’s pause and heads for the exit hatch before they can think clearly enough to try for a lightsaber. ‘I’ll come find you at sundown, sweetheart. Try not to work yourself too hard; wouldn’t want you getting off without me, would we?’

‘ _M’tn krngng Rnd_ –’

He closes the hatch behind him with a satisfying click and a shit-eating grin.

At least now any punishment he earns from this training will have been completely worthwhile.

* * *

To his surprise he actually manages to sneak back to the ship without getting into a fight. He almost runs into Hanharr once (he’d love to claim he sensed the Wookie and made a calm escape but truthfully he smelled the damn thing and had to muffle his sprinting with the Force to get away cleanly). He thinks he hears HK several times before remembering what planet they’re on but never runs into the assassin droid. There’s no sight, sound or sense of Mandalore, which he’d be worried about if he were Bao-Dur, but he’s not, so he doesn’t. He half expects a furious Exile to maul him at every corner but his scoundrel’s luck (and impromptu bondage effort) holds out and so he finds himself in the shadows at the edge of the landing pad, watching and waiting. The area is still and silent; the loading-ramp lays open and empty, beckoning to all who approach.

There’s simply no _way_ that it isn’t a trap.

Fortunately he’s well-practiced at being patient by now so he settles down to wait. As it happens he doesn’t have to wait very long.

He hears the rifle-shots at almost the same time as he senses them – well, senses Mical at least, though it’s hard not to. The historian’s given up on stealth entirely. He’s running every defensive Force power Atton can think of in addition to a flickering energy shield. There’s nobody strictly chasing him but he’s using the Force to hasten his speed anyway, becoming little more than a blur as he sprints towards the ship. Blaster shots pock-mark the ground in his wake. One or two clip his frame but his shield’s still holding, barely, and he doesn’t stumble.

Just as Atton thinks he might make it after all a ripple splits the air in front of him and – as he’s moving entirely too fast to avoid it – Mical clotheslines himself at near light speed on Mandalore’s outstretched arm.

‘Irritated declaration: Meatbag, that one is _mine_ ,’ HK-47 complains as it stalks across the pad. ‘Find your own target.’

‘Funny, here I was thinking that I was the one who knocked him out, which makes him _my_ claim,’ Mandalore responds. He rests a boot on Mical’s chest possessively. Mical is groaning, so he unfortunately hasn’t snapped his neck but he’s not looking particularly conscious.

‘Condescending statement: I located the quarry and hounded it back to this location, lowering its shields with near-perfect efficiency. If you had not interfered, I would have felled it within the next two shots. Threatening statement: Back off, Canderous.’

Mandalore bristles. ‘The krif did you just call me, tin can?’

Smirking, Atton activates his stealth field generator and starts moving. That’s two out of the four hunters here and neither of them are focussed on anything but arguing; all he has to do is move quickly and he’ll have not only gotten revenge for Dxun but given the Exile no opening to properly punish him for it. He can almost see their repressed fury when they return to the ship to find him lounging in the cockpit with an easy grin on his face.

He can almost see it so clearly, in fact, that he’s caught completely by surprise when he crosses under a landing strut and two well-hidden mines explode around his head. The world spins furiously and then everything goes black.

* * *

When the world fades back into sight again, he’s pleased to find that he’s on the loading ramp of the _Ebon Hawk_. Somehow, someway, he made it.

Then he realises that there is a _pathetically_ loose cable around his wrists.

‘Didn’t want you liking it too much,’ Mandalore says casually.

‘Mines.’

‘Yep.’

‘You mined the ship.’

‘Non-lethally.’ After a brief pause he adds, ‘Pretty sure they were all sonics, anyway.’

Atton lets his aching head drop back to the loading-ramp floor. ‘That was _cheap_.’

‘All’s fair in love and war, flyboy, and hunting falls under both categories.’ The man reaches down to “untie” Atton’s bindings. ‘If it makes you feel better, you made it the closest so far.’

‘Unnecessary addendum: Only by approximately five metres,’ HK chimes in, dragging a somewhat more properly-bound Mical up the ramp to join them. The droid sounds far more jovial than usual. ‘Satisfied statement: That is two out of three. Query: Do you think that the Wookie or the Master were successful in locating the Zabrak?’

Mandalore shrugs. ‘We’ll find out soon enough. Only a few hours til sundown.’

Maybe an hour and a half of traded barbs and dissipating headaches later, a familiar smell wafts across the landing-pad as Hanharr stalks into view. Patches of his fur are singed and there’s more than one bloody matt but he’s still walking comfortably. Bao-Dur is slung over one of his shoulders. The Zabrak looks equally bloodied but far limper.

‘You remembered the non-lethal part, right?’ Mandalore asks, sounding supremely unconcerned.

‘<<Regrettably, yes.>>’ The Wookie dumps his prey on the floor near the other two “captives”. Mical winces as Bao-Dur’s face literally bounces off the ground. ‘<<He is not dead. But he would not stop attempting to escape, so he has only himself to blame for his current condition.>>’

Atton doesn’t think that Bao-Dur would view it that way. Technically the Wookie’s not wrong, though.

That only leaves one.

* * *

Thirty minutes before sundown the Exile finally arrives, sweeping across the pad imperiously. There’s no stains on their robe, no visible marks on their face; they’re even walking evenly (not that he’d expect anything less of them but it’s still a little surprising to see given how hard he went – he’s definitely starting to walk a bit gingerly). When their gaze alights on the three “captives” they scowl in disappointment. Until they see Atton, at least, at which point the disappointment gains a somewhat venomous edge to it.

‘Took you long enough,’ Mandalore says. He gestures to the three apprentices. ‘You’ll be glad to know we got ‘em all. Or pissed, I don’t know. The Iridonian got picked up a few blocks away by the Wookie, Blondie got chased back and knocked down on the pad, and your flyboy there found my mines with his face under the belly of the _Hawk_.’

They smirk a little at that, but only briefly. ‘Disappointing but not terribly surprising I suppose.’ Then a realisation occurs. ‘Wait – you _mined_ the ship?’

‘Non-lethally.’

‘Huh. Didn’t expect you to take this so seriously. Good work. Make sure you get the remaining ones though; I’d hate to run into them the next time we have to make a hasty exit.’

‘Query: Will we do this again sometime, Master?’ HK asks, a little too eagerly.

‘We’ll see. Perhaps once these three have improved their skills a bit.’ They fold their arms and return their attention to the three apprentices. ‘As to your punishments – I shall withhold them until we’ve dealt with Vash. T3 has informed me that the radiation issue is resolved and we’ll be safe to travel through the main hub by morning, so heal whatever injuries you may have suffered – full use of the medbay permitted – and be prepared for another hunt.’

‘And _then_ be prepared for six hours of hold-the-drive-core,’ Atton mutters, as the group disseminate.

The Exile sweeps up the ramp beside him. ‘I heard that, Rand.’

Oops; he hadn’t meant to be quite that loud. Apparently those sonics hit harder than he thought. ‘Am I wrong, though?’

A steel-strong hand grips his shoulder. It’s not _quite_ tight enough to hurt but the promise of impending violence still comes through strongly.

Then again, when is there _not_ an aura of impending violence around them?

‘After your _efforts_ today,’ they say, their voice dropping to a malicious hiss, ‘I fully intend to make holding the drive core look like a _reward_ to you.’

He should probably be a lot more worried about that than he is, especially after having failed the actual training session. But honestly? Revenge is half the fun. And it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.

(Later, much later, he’ll remember holding the pistol to their head as they buck and scream on his cock and maybe – just _maybe_ – he’ll imagine pulling the trigger.)

(But only maybe.)

( _not that you’ll admit it_ )

* * *

For all the Exile’s planning and preparations, finding Vash is about as exciting and dangerous as killing her. Even if half the planet is devoted to producing battle-droids the fact of the matter is they’re still _droids_. The majority of the two days they spend Jedi-hunting is devoted to running back and forth between various incompetent, single-minded machines until one agrees to cough up the information or access they require; the rest of the time is spent in short, decidedly disappointing bouts of violence. Mechanical screams just aren’t as satisfying as organic ones and oil is much more difficult to clean off than blood. Even HK starts to complain after a while.

Disappointingly, Vash’s apprentice puts up more of a fight than the Master herself – he slices into one of the Archons, sending a whole sector of droids against the party before, inevitably, being cut down once discovered. Vash, who has been held captive for the better part of a week by the time they reach her, is dehydrated and exhausted; she tries to flee rather than face them and ends up cut down by war-droids before the Exile can get to her.

Unsurprisingly, this does not improve anybody’s mood, least of all the Exile’s. Not even convincing the planet to produce a literal army of droids for them removes the scowl from their face.

‘We’re in for a bad time, aren’t we?’ Mical asks morosely, watching the Exile argue in circles with the planetary intelligence.

Atton scowls. ‘We were in for a bad time before this all went down. Now? I’m not sure I even have the _words_ for how bad of a time we’re in for.’ Particularly _him_. He might’ve been able to work his earlier transgressions into something a bit more enjoyable before all of this but now he doesn’t have a chance. Foul moods don’t make the Exile sadistic; foul moods make the Exile vindictive and resentful. Not a good combination, especially after the scars he left on their chest.

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ Mandalore says evasively. He’s been oddly quiet for the last few hours; Atton had assumed he was simply bored and running on autopilot like the rest of them, but maybe there’s a bit more to it than that.

He frowns. ‘Care to elaborate?’

The warrior shakes his head. ‘Wait for the boss. Gonna need their sign-off regardless.’

‘Excuse me for not exactly being reassured.’

Mandalore doesn’t answer and Atton falls back into begrudging silence. He can’t deny he’s curious though, so he reaches out through the Force. To his moderate surprise the man’s almost humming with eagerness – certainly more than his behaviour gives away – and, concerned, Atton pushes a little deeper, as deep as his limited practice will allow him to. The most he can find is some kind of misplaced pride… loyalty, almost, except not to anything Atton can make sense of.

He folds his arms and waits, interest piqued.

Eventually the Exile stalks over to the rest of the party. Even without reaching out Atton can feel their irritation; he doesn’t even consider prying closer for fear of provoking a not-entirely-unfounded outburst of rage.

To his surprise, Mandalore steps forward. ‘Before you start taking out the last few days on the apprentices, I’ve got a message you might want to hear.’

The Exile raises an eyebrow. ‘If you’re trying to save them some punishment, it must be good.’

‘Oh, it is.’ He folds his arms, straightens up tall. ‘It’s a message from Kex – your old friend on Onderon got in touch with him. Seems there’s a bit of a civil war brewing and he thinks that your assistance may prove invaluable… particularly since Vaklu appears to have allied himself with the Sith.’ He chuckles slightly. ‘Probably should mention that they’ve landed on Dxun and are setting themselves up in the tomb of Freedon Nadd, too, so _that’s_ going to need clearing.’

Ears (and auditory sensors) prick up; heads turn, grins start to form, the Force starts to thrum with anticipation.

‘A civil war and a Sith Lord’s tomb, you say?’ The Exile glances over their shoulder at the glowing form of M3-48, then looks back with a demonic grin. ‘Atton… my dear pilot. How fast can we get to Dxun?’

There are no coincidences, there is only the Force - but he'll thank his scoundrel's luck regardless.

* * *

Somehow, he still ends up being punished.

He confronts them in the corridors of the _Ebon Hawk_ as the party is preparing to split. ‘You can’t do this.’

The Exile scowls at him. ‘I can, I will, and I am. My decision is final. You’re leading the assault on the tomb.’

This is wrong; this is _wrong_. ‘You’re dropping into a civil war via Basilisk and you expect me to be fine with leaving you to go blast some cannocks in a dead guy’s house?’

Their scowl deepens. ‘That _dead guy_ is Freedon Nadd, one of the strongest Dark Side disciples in history. He was responsible for the Beast Wars of Onderon, for the rise of Qel-Droma and Exar Kun, and he was powerful enough that the most renowned of his actions occurred _years_ after his physical death.’ Whatever Nihilius’ forces are after in there… it’s going to be powerful. Dark. And _you_ –‘ they step towards him, placing their hand on his chest and dropping their voice to a soft growl – ‘are the only person in the galaxy I trust to not only handle whatever’s in there, but to not use it against me. It’s a simple decision.’

A thrill of warmth runs through him but it’s not enough. He places his hand over theirs, trapping it against him, basking it its weight, its heat. Its life. ‘And then who’s meant to watch your back in Iziz?’

For the first time in a very long time they give him a genuine smile. No malice, no sadism, no hidden agendas – just a smile. It almost looks wrong. After a split second he decides he still likes it. ‘You _will_ be watching my back – just from a distance. If I had anything to say about it I’d be heading to the tomb instead but unfortunately Kavar is in Iziz and after the loss of Vash, I’m not willing to risk losing another Master.’

‘I can’t block blaster fire from Dxun, though.’ He can feel his anger fading and he’s not sure if they’re doing it deliberately or not. It’d almost make him mad again but there’s still a part of his mind that remembers how he used to dream about them looking at him like they are now; sexual pleasure is gratifying, sure, but that’s never been the reason he’s so devoted to them. He almost hates it. ‘And there’s going to be a _lot_ of people shooting at you.’

‘There’ll be plenty of people shooting at you, too. And –’ they move closer to him, placing their other hand on the back of his neck – ‘unless this whole thing is an impressive false flag operation, I’d be prepared to bet that there’ll be Dark Jedi there, too.’

‘Are you trying to _bribe_ me into being happy about this?’

Their smile twists, just a little. ‘I could order it instead.’

‘Wouldn’t matter. I’m not going to be happy regardless.’ No matter how many times he does it, it always feels like a risk, but he wraps his free arm around them and plants a kiss on their forehead anyway. ‘What if Kavar’s like Vrook?’

The Exile snorts. ‘Kavar was a tactitian, not a brawler.’ They let him hold them for a moment before pushing back, breaking the spell. ‘And after Korriban, even Vrook wouldn’t have stood a chance. I’ll have Kreia and Visas with me – Mandalore and Hanharr, too. I will be fine. If anything, _I_ should be the one concerned that you’ll need _my_ help.’

He was never going to win this argument. There’s no argument he’ll ever win against them, not anymore. It’ll never stop him trying. ‘The only time I’ve ever needed your help was when I nearly killed myself for you. I’ll clear out those pretenders in time to join you against Kavar.’

Pride thrums through the bond, tempered with just a little bit of amusement. ‘What about Peragus?’

Despite himself Atton smiles. Hard not to, really – whenever he thinks of Peragus, he can’t help but marvel at how much has changed for the better in just a few short months. ‘Maybe just a little bit on Peragus. Call it even for that time on Goto’s yacht.’

They give him a full grin, a proper grin as they finally pull their hand away. ‘I’ll expect you in Iziz, then.’

Not even an hour later, as he leads the three droids and the other two apprentices through the jungle, Atton glances to the sky as a Basilisk war-droid thunders through the atmosphere, taking the familiar dark echo of the Exile with it. He reminds himself of their words on the _Hawk_ : leading the assault the tomb is a sign of trust, a mark of respect, an honour. Something to be proud of.

At the end of the day he’s still leading a group of three droids, Bao-Dur (plus remote) and Mical into an ancient tomb while the Exile drops into a war-torn city in a Basilisk war-droid, on a whole other planet.

It definitely feels like a punishment.

* * *

The Exile’s wager turns out to be more accurate than either of them imagined. Atton has his first real lightsaber duel on the steps of the tomb’s entrance; by the time they’ve broken past the outer camps and made it into the tomb proper they’ve cut down not only apprentices (Bao-Dur is capable of beating them down without even drawing his lightsaber; they’re not worthy of being called anything greater) but a few near-Lords, as well as a host of assassins, commandos and cannon fodder.

The Exile is equally correct about the tomb containing remnants of Freedon Nadd’s fantastic strength too. The presence of the Dark Side is strong enough to be literally visible, forming churning pools of opalescent energy on the floor. Neither Bao-Dur nor Mical are game to step into them but Atton – a little out of spite but mostly because he recalls the Exile’s confidence in him to handle the tomb’s challenges – walks through them without hesitation.

It reminds him of the confrontation on Nar Shaddaa, when the Exile re-opened his eyes to the power of the Force. It’s power almost overwhelming; intoxicating, addicting. If it results in a comparable sensation he can almost understand why all Sith seem driven to betray their Masters – but he’s bound to the Exile, has been from the start, and no sensation in the galaxy could be as rewarding and powerful as the drive they give him.

Emboldened, he pushes the party to keep moving, to kill faster. To make it to Iziz sooner. To be with _them_ sooner. To see them with his own eyes; to know that they’re safe.

In the heart of the tomb they interrupt some sort of ritual. “Finished”, the enemy Sith say, but Atton knows better – completed rituals don’t need to be broken. Completed rituals don’t leave the practitioners bleeding frustration and annoyance through the Force. He hasn’t needed to play the fool for a long time now, and he’s certainly not going to start again just to humour these idiots.

Mical, unsurprisingly, tries to argue for a lengthier investigation of the tomb once their enemies are dead.

Atton tells him in no uncertain terms that they’re leaving the second Atton’s finished ensuring the ritual can’t be restarted; if Mical isn’t with them when they board the shuttle back to the camp, he’ll be fighting his way back through the jungle alone.

It’s probably indicative of Atton’s focus that he’s only mildly disappointed to see Mical file onto the shuttle after T3. Then again the man’s somehow retained his pristine appearance and near-glowing aura despite all of the Exile’s training – Atton still hates him, still hates that the Exile uses his presence as a threat now and then, still wants him dead, but deep down Atton knows that Mical will never, ever mean as much to the Exile as Atton himself does, and he can live with that. For now.

Within minutes of touching down they’re headed back to the _Ebon Hawk_. Onderon may partially share Dxun’s atmosphere but their personal comms are still not powerful enough to bridge the gap between the planet and its moon. Atton has the engines warming up before the loading ramp’s even closed, has the ship’s comms opened and listening before they’ve come close to lifting off. The chatter is insane – the loyalists weren’t expecting the Sith, the Sith weren’t expecting the Exile and nobody was expecting basically every beast planetside to start rampaging for no clear reason.

He pings the Exile’s party repeatedly but gets no reply. Not even when the broadcast goes out that Vaklu’s won, that the Queen is dead, that the war is over. It’s not until he’s just about to retract the struts and launch them that the response comes through: ‘Mandalore here. It’s done – the Queen and Kavar are dead.’

Atton grips the yoke like his life depends on it. ‘And the Exile?’

‘Cool your jets, flyboy. The Exile’s fine. A little singed from some of the slicer’s tricks – probably blown out their comms, definitely blown out a few shield generators – but they’re fine.’

It feels like it’s the first time he’s let himself exhale since leaving for the tomb. He slumps back against the pilot’s chair, a faint smile on his face. ‘Good. That’s – that’s real good. Where should I land to pick you up?’

A brief burst of static sounds, then he replies, ‘There’s a square halfway up the Sky Ramp that’ll fit the _Hawk_ – come get us from there. How was the tomb?’

Atton pulls the _Ebon Hawk_ into a gentle ascent. ‘Same as any other tomb,’ he says, as they head for Iziz. ‘Filled with dead people.’

* * *

By the time he touches the ship down on the Sky Ramp, the fighting in Iziz has cooled to a low simmer. There’s still pockets of fighting here and there – he had to dodge two different sets of anti-air fire as he approached – but for the most part, the war’s finished. Not much of a war at all, in the grand scheme of things. Yet he can already feel the death steeping into the earth below, the pain and suffering of those now being rounded up for slaughter, and he’s forced to admit that he can’t really think of a better word for it.

It’s almost enough to make him wish he was there for Malachor. If this is the feeling of just a small-scale conflict in a single city what would the death of two fleets, the death of a whole _planet_ feel like?

It’s the first time he’s regretted not being a Force user earlier. He’s sure Peragus II would’ve had at least some sentients still present.

He can feel the Exile long before he sees them – that comforting, familiar beacon of emptiness in the Force. As much as he wants to be there to greet them when the ramp lowers, to see them safe with his own eyes, he’s not some fool ruled by his emotions; he knows they’re safe. There’s no need to rush. They’ll make their own way to him, in their own time, and the more patient he is the more likely he is to be rewarded.

He still can’t resist sending a wave of pride at them through the bond. Just because he had full confidence in them (probably, maybe) doesn’t mean he can’t be supportive of them anyway.

They respond with a pulse of their own pride, warm and strong, and Atton smiles at the nav console.

* * *

He doesn’t see the Exile in-person until after they’ve returned to Dxun, to let Mical run his blasted investigations and Mandalore to settle down the camp. They’re the one to approach him, sealing the cockpit door behind them as they enter.

Atton spins around to face them, perfectly timed to catch them as they sink onto his lap; their hands are immediately threaded in his hair, their lips pressed against his own, and he can’t help but sigh into their familiar warmth. ‘Let’s not do that again,’ he murmurs, running his hands down their back. ‘Even if we’ve now got enough lightsaber parts to arm a battalion of Jedi.’

The Exile nips at his lips, his chin, his neck. ‘Don’t forget the gratitude of yet _another_ planet. And more than a few keepsakes from their treasuries.’

‘It’s hard to argue with results.’ He leans back to enjoy their ministrations. Things are as they should be, now; he can relax again. He’s barely even digging his fingernails into them. Though now that he’s focussing more on them there’s something foreign present – an undercurrent that takes him a few moments to properly place, something fervent and deep. Something worried. Something almost afraid.

He straightens up, meets their raised eyebrow with his own expression of seriousness. He doesn’t bother with words; they can sense his concern through the bond already.

Their lips twitch but they don’t try to argue. Instead they close their eyes, forego their assault, and press their forehead against his. ‘What remains of the Order will soon reconvene on Dantooine,’ they finally say, voice quiet. ‘Atris. Any other living Masters. Whatever Jedi are nearby. If they live, if they still hear the call – they’ll be there.’

He lets his hands rest on their hips. Not pulling, not guiding – just present. ‘To kill you?’

‘To answer to me.’ Red-shot eyes flutter open, heavy and tired. ‘And then probably to try to kill me.’

His answer is reflexive: ‘I won’t let them.’

The Exile smiles at him. It’s that same smile from before the Onderon civil war, from before the assault on the tomb – no malice, no hidden agendas, almost peaceful. Almost content. ‘I know you won’t.’ Then they’re kissing him again, hard and almost frantically, and as he succumbs to their fervour Atton can only pray that he’s worthy of their faith in him.

( _you were never worthy, but you’re theirs to hurt, so you’ll bleed just the same_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two trilogies down; one more to go. The last three episodes are lighter on the sexual content and heavier on the psychological/Dark Side elements. I'd hoped to get the entire story finished by the end of 2020 to start 2021 on a less-cursed footing but that's probably not going to happen so, hell with it. They'll be up soon; they're mostly written, just need some polishing and a few bits and pieces to link things together. I want to get this thing finished and out of my head so I can go back to writing less-twisted stuff.
> 
> For the record - to make it explicitly clear, I absolutely do not view BSDM and its related activities as negative or inherently bad/unhealthy but I'm acutely aware that the scenes portrayed in this fic are neither healthy nor representative of "good" BDSM. This isn't a fic written for personal sexual gratifcation or arousal - I've actually been more uncomfortable writing/publishing this story than I can ever remember - but my writing has always been character-driven. As much as I wanted this fic to simply end with Atton and the Exile curled up and expressing their feelings clearly and openly it just wasn't going to happen. It'd be disingenuous and not authentic to the way their characters were developing.
> 
> And yeah, I'm equally aware that all sounds like a bunch of BS attempting to justify this shit but it doesn't require justification; it just is what it is. I try to keep my author's notes as straightforward and wankery-free as I can (when I'm sober, anyway) so maybe this is just my attempt at figuring out why I wrote this in the first place. Fucked if I know. It's blocking my other stories though, so it's coming out one way or another, and at the worst I hope it'll at least net me some concrit on the pacing and structure of explicit scenes.


	7. EPISODE VII: Dantooine (Again), Telos (Again) & the Ravager

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Major** warnings for non-con/dub-con elements (dub-con/almost forced-con but STRONGLY implied that it'd be non-con if the Force bond wasn't involved, and EXTREMELY reluctant even then), mental fuckery, a lot of violence, party member deaths, D/S elements, anal play, rough sex, choking, sexual violence, extrmely unhealthy relationship dynamics and equally unhealthy coping mechanisms but honestly, at this point of the story, that's about the least of what's problematic here.
> 
> Very genuinely: if you are triggered by/do not cope well with reluctant/non-consensual elements, skip this chapter, or at least skip from the end of the _Ravager_ confrontation to the next horizontal rule (search for "worst sexual experience" to be certain of skipping anything triggering).

Even under mercenary rule Dantooine is still just as boring as it was the last time they were here. The battered greeting droid still recognises the Exile with “Greetings, Jedi!”, the scars of the battle have been smoothed over like they never existed, the kinrath are still just as irritating – even the broken security door’s still hanging open. The remaining settlers are still suspicious, still aggressive, but they don’t dare approach the party. Not now.

Still, the planet somehow feels different. Not like Iziz. A little closer to the refugee sector of Nar Shaddaa maybe, after the Exile cleared out the Exchange and the Serocco thugs, but not quite that either. There’s something deeper now. An ache, almost, or an echo of melancholy. It sets his teeth on edge. Not as much as the idea as a whole Enclave full of Jedi, but enough that every step on the planet pisses him off. Enough that he’s actually glad to remain on the _Ebon Hawk_ when the Exile heads off to the ruins of the Enclave again.

It’s not as if there’s any real risk to them there anyway. Not one of the Force Sensitives on board can feel _anything_ coming from the Enclave and out of all the Jedi Masters listed in Atris’ archives, only Atris herself is still alive, but none of the other ships currently at the landing pad are capable of hyperspace travel. Either whatever mysterious signal Kreia was talking about didn’t reach her in her frozen fortress or she decided against confronting the Exile one last time.

It doesn’t really matter. If she’s not here, the Exile will undoubtedly order them back to Telos to bring the confrontation to Atris instead. She’ll be cut down sooner or later.

It’s a comforting thought.

He’s pulled away from his musings when his comm crackles to life with an unexpected voice: Bao-Dur. ‘ _Atton. Are you still on the ship?_ ’

‘Course. What’s up?’

‘ _Just heard something of interest and thought I’d pass it on. That droid merchant – the Sullustan – said that he saw a woman in white robes arrive yesterday, on a freighter with Telosian markings. Alone._ ’

Atton straightens up in the piilot’s seat. ‘Atris?’

‘ _I don’t think so – he said she was carrying a staff. Couldn’t describe the face but said she looked like a mercenary, not a scholar; no hood, short hair, angry._ ’

One of the handmaidens, then – the outcast by the sounds of it. Not fantastic but far from dangerous. ‘Trust her to send a lackey instead of doing the dirty work herself. Where’s the ship, then?’

‘ _He wasn’t sure. He saw it taking off but it didn’t appear to leave the atmosphere. I’m taking Goto and T3 to see if we can track it down – I’d be surprised if it’s gone far. Mical’s asking around Khoonda; the others are heading out to the salvager camps to see if they know anything._ ’

‘Sounds like a good idea.’ He flips the switch for the loading ramp and thumbs the lock. No sense in leaving the door open now. ‘I’ll stay here on guard. Let me know if anyone needs pickup or some bigger guns.’

‘ _Will do. Let us know when the General’s back._ ’

He grunts an affirmative and leans back in his seat, frowning. A lone handmaiden? Even back on Telos a single handmaiden was no match for the Exile – Atris is a lot of things, but she isn’t _that_ stupid.

Is it possible that Atris remained on the ship, sent a handmaiden out to handle the administrative duties? He discards the thought almost instantly; someone would have sensed her presence by now, hidden ship or not. He wasn’t (re)awakened to the Force the last time they were at the Academy so he can’t speak authoritatively but both Kreia and the Exile seemed convinced of the handmaidens’ claims to be deaf to the Force, too, which would explain why none of the _Ebon Hawk_ ’s sensor-types noticed her here.

Only one, though. And the so-called weakest one at that. Of all the women at the Academy, why would Atris send the half-blood outcast? A sacrifice?

His stomach churns. Just the once. Something’s not right about this. He should’ve gone with the Exile, he thinks; they’re safe, he _knows_ they’re safe, but there’s something about this whole situation that doesn’t feel right and he’d feel much better for having them where he can see them.

A loud _click_ sounds from the control panel and he’s harshly jerked from his contemplations. None of the toggles have fallen off and nothing’s sparking, which is both confusing and a relief, but then he notices that the loading bay light is lit again – someone’s coming onboard. They used the correct codes though, so it’s got to be one of the crew.

…unless the handmaiden still has the code from the _last_ time the ship was stolen.

Soft footsteps echo through the ship’s corridors. He reaches out, tries to sense them but his thoughts slide off them like water. It’s not a conscious block – it’s like trying to grab an oiled blaster. He just can’t get purchase on it.

The footsteps are getting louder. They’re heading for the cockpit.

He forms a rudimentary barrier around himself from the Force, waits until the unsensible presence reaches the cockpit threshold, then spins and rises to his feet with lightsabers drawn.

Kreia’s lips twitch in amusement. ‘Do you suppose those pose a threat to me?’

‘Do you _enjoy_ creeping people out? One day someone’s going to strike instead of asking questions first and you’ll lose your other hand.’ He kills his sabers with a grunt of annoyance. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t take your head off. One of Atris’ followers is here.’

‘Of course. They came for me.’

Atton’s frown morphs into a scowl. ‘If you knew why didn’t you mention it earlier?’

Kreia smiles. Too late, Atton realises that her fingertips are singed black, that the creases on her face have deepened more than can be attributed to the poor lighting. ‘Perhaps it was not yet the right time.’

He scratches at his ear, subtly flicking his comm mic on. No audio – he can’t risk that she hears it – but maybe the others will pick up on it. ‘Kreia, why are you back here at all? I thought you were heading to the Enclave.’

‘I have been there already.’ Her smile hardens, becomes forced. ‘There is nothing left to do there anymore. The Jedi Order is finished.’

‘And the galaxy won’t mourn it. Where’s the Exile, then?’

‘They remain.’

‘Remain where?’ When her only response is to smile wider, smile darker, a spike of furious fear stabs at his heart and he starts towards her with a snarl. ‘You old scow, tell me –’

‘Tell you what?’ she demands, and ice-cold fingers wrap around his mind. He stumbles, collapses to his hands and knees as his limbs stop responding to his commands. ‘You _fool_. Even if I told you everything I told them it would make no difference. If they failed to understand me there is no hope for one such as you. No. They were my last apprentice, my greatest apprentice, and yet they have still failed me, as you have failed them. As you _will_ fail them.’

He bares his teeth, tries to push through the hold but he can’t. It’s not a stasis field, not a grip. Not something he can force his way out of. Yet the fear rushing through him is not for himself. ‘They were _never_ yours.’

She laughs. ‘And you think to claim possession for yourself? Your actions, your thoughts, your feelings have not been your own since Peragus – how could you hope to think that you ever held sway over them? The Exile is the death of the Force, the death of _life_. Something as pathetic as you never stood a chance against their strength.’

_They give him a cruel smile. “If they are not strong enough to handle it, then they have no business following me. Present company included.”_

_He flinches again. Fear, instinctive and deep: he cannot be left behind. He cannot lose them. He **must** follow, **must** protect, **must** obey. “I wasn’t –”_

_“Shh.” They reach out, put a palm on his cheek. The Force thrums through it – warm, eager. **Too** eager. But he doesn’t know, won’t know, doesn’t care._

He knows. He always knew, he thinks. He doesn’t care because he knows better than she ever will. ‘At least I can admit it. What’s that make you?’

She hisses and Atton cries out as blinding spears of pain ram through his skull. ‘Be thankful you still have a part to play in this, worm, otherwise I’d leave you dead on this floor.’

Each word he speaks has to be torn from his throat. Pain’s never stopped him before though. ‘There’s only… one person on the ship… they ordered me… to not kill. Wasn’t… you. Let me up… see who leaves who… for dead.’

‘I think not. Though perhaps…’

A cold, hard palm grabs him by the forehead, fingers dragging his eyelids up painfully as the nails dig into the tops of his eye-sockets. She wrenches his head back as he cries out again. His vision is blurred, shot through with dots of light and dark, but he can still see enough to see her sneer of contempt.

‘You thought my control of you was ended when they took you as their plaything.’ Pressure builds at her fingertips as if claws are growing from her nails, boring their way into the tops of his eyes inch by agonising inch. ‘You were a fool to think you were ever free. Now _remember_ , murderer… and know that when they see what you truly are and dispose of you, when they cut you down like the animal you are, that you brought this on yourself.’

His response disappears into a scream as the phantom claws pierce through his eyes, through to the very back of his skull. In the moments before his world fades out in a pain-soaked haze of red and black, though, he feels something familiar squirm within the darkest recesses of his mind.

( _why didn’t you kill her when you had the chance?_ )

* * *

Footsteps pound through the floor, through his head. It’s like a hangover but louder – brighter. Harsher. Except his mouth is dry, not fuzzy, and he’s on the floor of the _Ebon Hawk_ ’s cockpit instead of a cantina.

_– now remember, murderer… –_

Atton forces his eyes open. It’s like tearing out fingernails. Or teeth.

The footsteps continue as he forces himself to his hands and knees, breathing heavily the entire way. The memory of the confrontation hits him like a speeder and he almost panics – _where are they?_ – but when he reaches out frantically he immediately finds the Exile’s familiar echo, sprinting towards him.

Relief. Warm, wonderful relief. It’s so much easier when they come to him.

Steel-strong fingers grab for his shoulders. ‘Where is she?’ the Exile barks.

‘Gone.’ He sits back with their assistance, finally meets their gaze. For all the fury in their tone he can feel a tang of concern pulsing over the bond. It’s almost pathetic. ‘The handmaidens were here for her. They know – know who she is now. They’ll take her to Telos. To Atris.’

His eyes are still throbbing. If it wasn’t for the fact he can still see he’d have thought them burst; a surge of rage runs through him at the thought of what the old witch did to him. Did to _them_.

The Exile’s eyes widen in understanding before narrowing in anger. ‘Atris will kill her. If Kreia dies…’

If Kreia dies, the Exile dies – by someone else’s hand. A cheap death. A pathetic death. A worthless death, so far removed from what the Exile deserves.

He can’t let that happen. He _won’t_ let that happen.

For a split second it’s like he’s living in stereo again. He wants to kill Atris, keep Kreia alive, keep the Exile alive. He wants to kill Atris then kill the Exile, watch the old witch die the weakling’s death she had planned for her own “apprentice”. He wants blood on his hands. He wants _their_ blood on his hands –

His hands reach up, lock around their wrists.

_– you brought this on yourself –_

He meets their gaze again, red and merciless as always, and it sends a chill down his spine. Suddenly his mouth is dry and his fury is replaced with fear, and disgust, and something akin to disappointment – in him? In them? He doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know if he ever did.

He has to tell them. He has to do something. _Anything_ , except the one thing he was born to do.

Atton swallows, hard, and grinds out, ‘Kreia – she –’

‘I know.’ Their fingers crush down, digging into Atton’s shoulders even through the armour. ‘I know. The others heard over the comms.’

Relief and fury churn through him, for reasons he can no longer understand. Reasons he no longer wants to understand.

The Exile smiles at him. Cruelly. ‘The thing is, Atton… I _always_ knew what you were. What you are. What you _can_ be. Every time you felt delight when I suffered at your hands, every moment of self-disgust you felt pleading for release at mine, every time you hated yourself for being tempted to go just that little bit further – I felt it all. I knew it all. It was why I made you mine. And if she thinks I would kill you for it, she is an even greater fool than I gave her credit for.’

It’s not his own death he fears, though. It was never his own death that he feared. Except for all the times it was.

Their grip is almost painful. His mind is broken, a confused mess of conflicting emotions, only some of which are his own and the pain is the only thing that makes sense. It doesn’t change. It doesn’t shift. It’s a constant, safe and stable, and he clings to it with his last dregs of sanity.

‘Remember Dxun,’ they say. ‘Remember the planet of droids. Remember Nar Shaddaa. You are _stronger_ than the machinations of an old witch, Atton – I made sure of that. I did not train you to give in so easily. Remember –’

– _murderer –_

‘– what you are… and tell me.’

He is a monster masquerading as a man. A broken, slavering beast not even fit to kill prisoners for entertainment. He is an animal, something less than human, kept in check by the flimsiest of leashes… but the chain is still _there_. Not in his hands, not anymore. Maybe not ever. The Exile has him, though, and they will have him until the day they let him go. Not the day he breaks free – he was never free – but the day they let him go.

‘Yours,’ he says, because it’s the only thing he knows is true. ‘I am yours. To use, to break, to kill –’

The kiss they give him cuts through the chaos of his thoughts as sharply as the pain in his shoulders. It’s constant. Stable. Safe. He knows who he is there; he wants to stay there forever.

‘Good,’ they murmur, and let go of him. Back to business. ‘On your feet, now, and get the engines primed. We must head for Telos.’

They wait until he’s risen to stand and, with a cursory nod, leave to deal with the rest of the crew.

He watches them walk away. Such is their confidence in him – or their power over him – that they don’t turn to look back once, though the urge to strike them down still radiates off him in waves.

He was a fool, indeed.

He was never anything else.

* * *

Though he flies to the Polar Academy paranoid that the Exile will drop dead at any moment, the _Ebon Hawk_ arrives without incident. Despite the quiet it’s still the worst hyperspace jump he’s ever had. The entire crew is brimming with a nauseating, anxious, furious energy from the moment they leave Dantooine – the Exile’s influence, undoubtedly – and without any training to fill the time, the journey drags on forever.

Atton doesn’t dare to leave the cockpit outside of runs to the ‘fresher. The further they get from Dantooine the fainter the witch’s words get, the more he feels like his usual self but he’s not stupid. Well – he’s not willing to take unnecessary risks, anyway. Not until his head’s settled down. In terms of raw power the Exile almost certainly has the edge over Kreia but their control is nowhere near the same level; they’re not willing to try fixing whatever she broke in his head. He’s kind of glad for it, honestly.

The Exile visits him, once. Either they’re too preoccupied with their own thoughts or his hesitation turns them off because they don’t try to instigate anything. They simply sit in his lap, fingers tracing his jaw, and let him hold them as they silently watch the lines of hyperspace fly past. He tries to focus on their weight on his knees, their slow and measured breathing, the warmth of their body against his.

Once upon a time this was the kind of thing he dreamed of doing with them, but that was so very long ago. Somehow, it’s still… nice. A moment of calm before the storm. At least if he ignores the newly-reawakened whispers telling him he’s pathetic, _they’re_ pathetic, they’re a _Jedi_ and it would feel so _good_ to see them gasp their last at his hands –

Atton buries his face in their hair, tightens his hold around their body.

‘Beat it down,’ they say calmly, still stroking his jaw. ‘Or channel it towards Kreia. The second I am confident the bond is broken, she dies. _Painfully_.’ For a moment their fingernails dig into his skin; not hard enough to break it, just to leave temporary indentations. ‘ _Nobody_ hurts you but me.’

Once upon a time that would have worried him to hear, yet it would have been no less true. It’s always only been them.

* * *

Kreia is long gone by the time they reach Telos. She leaves only a fallen Atris in her wake, with directions to seek her at Malachor V. Annoyed at being deprived of their desired target the Exile cuts Atris down slowly and viciously. Atton’s certain they’d have spent even longer on her were it not for Visas informing them of the arrival of her old master – Nihilus, the one that hungers.

It wasn’t really needed. Even _he_ could feel the shift that accompanied the arrival of the _Ravager_ above Citadel Station, though he hadn’t been fully sure what it was.

Hopefully the old witch holds off on killing herself for a little longer. The Exile might be cold and callous but even they know the importance of keeping Citadel Station intact. Killing Nihilus is just a side bonus, really.

Once they’ve cleared the initial assault on the Station the party splits – well, splits further. Somewhere in the chaos Bao-Dur and HK have gone missing (though the Exile seems confident that they’re still alive somewhere, somehow). Mical, Hanharr and the two remaining droids are ordered to stay and assist the Republic efforts on the Station while Atton and Visas accompany the Exile to find a way aboard the _Ravager_ itself. They’re debating the chance of success if they take the _Hawk_ in for a pass when Mandalore – who had also disappeared when they first landed on the station – reappears with a coterie of his followers in tow, toting four massive proton charges and a pair of shuttles primed for boarding operations. The Exile gleefully accedes to his request to “neglect to inform” the Republic contingent of their true plans and, like that, they’re off.

The closer they get to the _Ravager_ , the colder Atton feels. He’d be tempted to ascribe it to the thinned atmosphere and lack of insulation on his armour but the shuttles are packed with bodies and the chill runs deeper than his bones. Whoever – _whatever_ Nihilus is, there’s no question that he’s powerful. And hungry.

He reaches out for the Exile through the bond to see if they’re feeling it too. Instead of cool anticipation they’re brimming with a searing hunger of their own – like Nihilus, but where he’s a black hole they’re a supernova. Their power still draws in all around them but they don’t consume; they ignite. They burn.

The Masters once called them a wound in the Force. This is the first time that Atton properly appreciates that description. It doesn’t change how he feels about them for an instant.

They board without incident and start heading for the bridge, where Visas claims Nihilus is. Detours are made to plant the proton charges; beyond a minor issue when one detonates prematurely and they’re forced to scavenge a makeshift bomb from the remains of a missile, things go smoothly.

At least until they reach the bridge.

Nihilus is immensely, incredibly powerful. If the Exile is a wound in the Force, Nihilus is an endless void – just being in his presence is stifling. It’s like drowning in the vacuum of space. The Force-hold he places them in is manifestly more powerful than any Atton’s ever been subjected to – it’s a struggle just to breathe against the pressure around him. Whatever language Nihilus speaks is like nothing Atton’s ever heard before and although he can’t understand a single word Nihilus speaks, he somehow understands exactly what the Sith Lord is saying: he hungers. The Academy Kreia told him of was a lie, a diversion, but he will sate himself on the Exile and their followers before taking the final scraps of life from Telos as he did on Katarr.

Briefly, Atton feels afraid but the Exile is smiling, so he smiles too. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t need to.

The answer becomes apparent when Nihilus attempts to drain the Exile: you can’t draw from something that is already empty.

The endless void tries to feed on a gaping wound and finds nothing there but pain. With an inhuman cry Nihilus collapses to a single knee and the stasis field weakens; when the Exile sneers at him, stretches out their own hand to show him just how weak the hold now is, he pushes himself up with a growl. Either he’s half-mad from hunger or the pain’s made him stupid because he tries to drain them a second time to just as little effect. This time, the hold breaks entirely, and Atton pulls his lightsabers to hand with an eager grin.

Nihilus draws his own dual sabers with another mad snarl and the fight begins in earnest.

Atton’s grin fades when he discovers that even with three Dark Jedi and a Mandalorian beating on him, Nihilus shows no signs of going down.

‘Why won’t he _die_?’ the Exile shrieks, as they shove themself in front of Atton for the third time (it’s the only reliable way to stop Nihilus from feeding and as the only “edible” Force Sensitive that isn’t his ex-pupil, Atton is apparently to Nihilus what a freshly-killed bantha is to a starving rancor).

Visas blocks a furious swipe from her ex-Master. Her arms are already trembling. ‘He is… too _powerful_ ,’ she gasps out. ‘He is that – in which all life dies –‘

‘Spare me the poetry and _do_ something about it! You still have a bond with him, don’t you?’

Atton drops free of the hold with a pained snarl, pulls his dropped lightsabers back to his hands yet again. He prepares to jump back in but the Exile remains steadfastly between him and Nihilus; with a growl he flings a bolt of lightning around them at the masked Sith Lord, who makes no attempt to block it but appears practically unaffected despite the trails of smoke emanating from his robes.

The Miraluka easily sidesteps a pair of deflected blaster bolts. Mandalore is sensibly remaining at range; he’s had about as much effect on the battle as the rest of them. ‘Yes –’

‘So _use it_!’

‘I don’t know –’

‘Oh, you _do_.’ The Exile bares their teeth as they work to deflect a furious hail of blows. ‘If the rest of us are to survive this, you must sacrifice yourself.’

The third blaster bolt ricochets off her shields as she freezes in place. Her grip tightens on the hilt of her saber. ‘But – I –’

One of Nihilus’ strikes makes it past the Exile’s defence; their shields stutter and fizzle out. ‘Did I _stutter_?’ they snarl, as Atton instinctively moves forwards to restart their shield generator. ‘You are _bonded_ to him; open it up and _suffer_! Kill yourself if you must – just _bring him down_!’

Atton’s body is moving on muscular instinct alone at this point. The Exile was in danger: he reacted. His brain is still stunned, still locked on their words. An order for one of the apprentices to – to _kill_ themselves –

Visas hesitates. Just for a moment. It’s still a moment too long.

‘ _Do it_!’ the Exile shouts. ‘I _order_ you – _do it_!’

The spell is broken.

Visas bares her teeth. Her hands are shaking. Yet she still manages to re-grip her saber, blade facing inwards and – as Atton watches, both eager and horrified – she drives the blade into her own stomach, crumbling with a guttural cry of agony.

Nihilus stumbles, drops to one knee. His cry is as incomprehensible as anything else he’s said but Atton feels it all the same: pain. Suffering. _Weakness_.

Atton ignites his sabers in a flash and darts around the Exile to strike at the Sith Lord. This time, his blows strike home, and his energy rises as he feels the pain from Nihilus’ cries of agony.

In moments the Exile is with him, bearing down with their own unique combination of honed Force powers and lightsaber blows. They were a Consular long before they were a nascent Sith Lord themselves so their strikes are more metaphysical than physical, but their presence alone is more potent than any stimulant Atton’s ever felt – to say nothing of the pain echoing through the Force from both Visas and Nihilus. It’s almost as good as hearing the Exile scream under his own hands.

‘Incoming!’ Mandalore yells, and Atton jumps aside as the armoured giant charges into the fray. He might not be sporting a lightsaber but there’s no denying he’s stronger than both Atton and the Exile combined – his charge sends Nihilus stumbling backwards, his blades tearing through robes and armour with abandon. Atton waits for an opening to join in on the carnage; the Exile stands back and sends bolts of lightning around the three combatants.

Nihilus wavers. His blocks become delayed, sloppy; his robes start to char, to fray. He starts to look _mortal_.

‘Get his back,’ Mandalore snarls, meeting Nihilus’ sabers with his own reinforced blades. He’s on the offensive now; it’s Nihilus reacting to _his_ blows, Nihilus being driven back by _his_ assault.

Atton darts to the side in support. For a moment it looks as if Nihilus will still block him but the Exile sends a bolt of lightning through Visas and the masked Sith Lord howls, then howls again as both of Atton’s blades are driven home through his ribs. Atton grits his teeth and drags them out sideways – near tearing Nihilus in two – and it’s a testament to the man’s power that he _still_ doesn’t die.

Mandalore shoves the Sith Lord back and swipes for the hilt of one of the sabers. He doesn’t quite make it and the lightsaber’s blade skates off his shields; Atton drops to one knee, whips his own lightsaber up and cleaves through the hilt and Nihilus’ hand together. The Force around them spikes with painful fury and Nihilus shrieks – Atton grits his teeth, forces himself to ignore the ringing in his ears, and Mandalore snarls his own defiance.

Then behind them, from the Exile, comes an answering scream.

He can physically feel it reverberating through his body even though the Exile’s taking care to not let it actually hurt the rest of the party. Soul-rending is the only way he can describe it – it’s a galaxy’s worth of pain and suffering made audible. It slams into Nihilus’ crumbling form like a proton missile, shoves the Sith Lord back as if he’s been physically struck, and Atton can almost _see_ the ripples in the thinned air around them.

Power. Such raw, perfect _power_.

Nihilus collapses to one knee. He looks to his broken saber, then back to the party. His mask is emotionless as always but there’s a vague sense of confusion in the Force – _this isn’t how this was meant to go_. He’s not afraid – he’s not human enough to be afraid anymore – but the air around him feels almost surreal.

The Exile’s voice rings clear through the gloom: ‘There is nothing I can take from him. Finish it.’

Atton flourishes his lightsabers, bares his teeth in a rictus of a grin, and obeys.

In the moment before he strikes the man down for the final time, Nihilus brokenly looks up at him, and Atton’s gaze is drawn to the empty voids where his eyes should be. There is no emotion there – there is _nothing_ there – and for just the briefest, tiniest fraction of a second Atton feels as if he’s standing on the brink of a great cliff, at the cusp of falling into something so unimaginably vast and deep that it almost hurts to try and comprehend it. For a fraction of that fraction, it almost feels like he’s being pulled in.

But Nihilus isn’t Kreia. Nor is he the Exile. So Atton plays his plus-minus three for an even twenty and cuts a jagged, searing _X_ across Nihilus’ chest.

As the Sith Lord’s body collapses to the ground the stifling pressure around them vanishes. An awful metallic groaning sound echoes from deeper in the ship; the atmosphere, already thin, fades further with every breath he takes. He kills his lightsabers with a grimace and turns to the rest of the party, already conjuring up a quip about breathlessness, but the words die on his tongue when he sees Visas’ body still laying on the floor.

The Miraluka is on her side, doubled over as she fell; the lightsaber may have cauterized her wound as it punctured through but even both Atton and the Exile healing her wouldn’t be enough at this point. Her lower spine has been burned to nothing; her internal organs are either bleeding, bisected or outright destroyed. She’s dead where she lays. It’s just a question of how long until her body catches up to the truth.

The Exile, to Atton’s surprise, is not ignoring her – they’re ignoring Nihilus’ corpse entirely and walking towards Visas instead, with an expression midway between annoyed and satisfied.

‘Was… was it enough?’ Visas asks. Her voice, already soft, is now almost nothing.

The Exile stands over her, arms folded. ‘Yes. Your sacrifice was enough.’

‘Then at last… I can die.’ She reaches out blindly with one shaking hand. ‘Kill… kill me, and I –’

‘No.’ They step back, out of reach. ‘You were pathetic – you could have been so much stronger, but your guilt killed that strength. I grant you one final opportunity to prove yourself strong. No-one will take your life here but you.’

Visas’ fingers curl in on themselves. Her lightsaber rattles against the floor as she slowly Force-pulls it towards herself, one last time. ‘I… I did not want to leave this life yet,’ she says faintly. ‘It was… weakness. But for you, I… Master…’

The saber stops by her throat. She doesn’t have the strength to pick it up; she drags one hand to lay over it, pinning it to the ground, its opening mere centimetres from her neck.

Nobody in the room speaks.

‘My life… for yours,’ she says.

Then the lightsaber extends, and she is no more.

‘A death worthy of a Mandalorian,’ Mandalore says, as the Exile heads for Nihilus’ body with a satisfied nod.

‘Pray that your is as well,’ they say. ‘Atton – take what you can from her. Leave her body here. She can burn with the rest of this cursed ship.’

Atton does as he is ordered, just like always. For a moment he almost finds himself almost jealous of Visas – she died knowing that her sacrifice had meaning, obeying her final orders with quiet dignity and more courage than he’d thought she possessed. She died knowing that her suffering was finished and that there was nothing more she could do for the Exile. As much as he hopes otherwise, he suspects he won’t be that lucky when his time comes.

But he is still alive for now. He can still serve them, still protect them. His jealousy is wasted on the dead.

He takes her lightsaber and gloves, leaves the burned-out shield generators and bloodied robes, and rises to his feet in time to see the Exile remove Nihilus’ mask.

‘So what was under there, in the end?’ he asks.

They eye the mask cautiously, turning it over in their hands. Eventually they shake their head and toss it to the floor. ‘Nothing,’ they say, as the mask shatters beneath their heel. ‘Let’s go.’

Behind them, the black-robed corpse dissolves in a shower of red energy. But the Exile doesn’t care, so Atton doesn’t care.

At least, he tells himself as much.

* * *

Predictably, the Republic contingent are less than impressed by the unexpected exploding of the _Ravager_. Nobody’s willing to argue that it was anything more than the unintended consequence of killing the Sith Lord though, so the party are left unmolested – though the Exile _is_ summoned to talk to one Admiral Onasi before they go. Mandalore also expresses an interest in seeing the man for some reason; Atton elects to return to the ship and prepare them for lift-off. Nihilus might be dealt with but Kreia – sorry, _Darth Trayus_ , as if that’s even _remotely_ subtle – still remains.

The first thing he sees upon boarding the ship is no less than three additional HK models in the workshop. Out of sheer habit, his lightsabers are drawn and ready to battle within seconds.

‘Irritated statement: Stand down, pilot; they are with me,’ HK grouses. It barely bothers to look up from the module it is tinkering on. ‘They will not harm anyone I do not want them to.’

‘You want to harm _everyone_.’

‘Amused statement: You are correct, in this instance. Clarification: They will not harm anyone I do not _permit_ them to. Since the Master has made it explicitly clear that your status as their favoured plaything prevents me from causing harm to you in any way, you may be reassured that none of my descendants here will act to hurt you.’

Atton kills his sabers. ‘I thought they ordered you not to call me that anymore.’

‘Correction: They ordered me to not call you their preferred form of stress relief. Until I am told otherwise, favoured plaything is still an accurate and permissible assessment.’

He makes a mental note to inform the Exile of this latest addition to HK’s vocabulary. He can’t say he really cares too much (and it’s not _in_ accurate) but the Exile is surprisingly touchy about how HK refers to Atton. ‘Fair. I take it you stormed the factory, then?’

‘Proud statement: Of course. I succeeded in discerning the factory’s location several weeks ago and informed the Master of my plans as we approached the planet.’

‘And you took Bao-Dur with you?’

HK shakes its head, finally looking up from its work. ‘Statement: The Iridonian’s presence was not necessary but he insisted on accompanying me. Conjecture: It is possible he did not believe in my combat abilities, despite all evidence to the contrary.’

‘Given the last few times we went up against the 50s you couldn’t shoot them without tripping your self-preservation programming, I’d say that’s a pretty well-founded belief.’

HK bristles. ‘Irritated clarification: Those knockoffs could no more fire on _me_ than I on _them_. Proud statement: It matters little in the end. I successfully ended production of the HK-50 series and commenced production of the superior HK-51 line – under my leadership, of course.’

Atton eyes the silent trio of droids distrustfully. _More_ droids on the ship; fantastic. Even though he suspects he already knows the answer, he asks: ‘And Bao-Dur?’

If HK had a face, Atton’s sure it would be smiling. ‘Statement: He is deceased. Ask your fellow apprentice if you want details. Cruel addendum: I am sure he would appreciate being reminded of his failures.’

He can’t help but smile at that. At least something positive seems to have come out of this mess. ‘I’ll do that.’

Once upon a time he’d probably have been a little more rattled at Bao-Dur’s death. Bao-Dur had been onboard the _Ebon Hawk_ almost as long as Atton himself and while the two of them had never been friendly, they’d had a shared bond of loyalty to the Exile that meant it wasn’t difficult to work with him. Not compared to others, for sure.

At present, though, the only thing that he finds interesting about it is that it means out of the four apprentices, only he and Mical remain. For now, anyway. Though he does have to admit it’s going to be a real pain having to deal with T3 for repairs and backup piloting duties.

He unhurriedly makes his way to the medbay. As he suspected, Mical is there, already rooting around in the cupboards. The disciple seems far more distracted than normal – his presence in the Force is agitated, almost chaotic.

‘I am glad to see you made it back unharmed,’ Mical says, and of course he actually means it. ‘I suppose that means the Exile is back, as well?’

‘They’re chatting with the big-wigs. They’ll be back soon.’ He leans against the doorframe, folding his arms. ‘HK says I should ask you about Bao-Dur being dead?’

Fresh grief washes across Mical’s face. The Force around him twists with pain; he’s too much of a Jedi to be angry with Atton for asking but not enough of a Jedi to be able to rely on that whole “there is not emotion, there is only peace” bantha fodder. ‘I… yes. He was already injured when he returned from the surface. I did not think it lethal as he was capable of healing himself and showed no inclination to doing so. During the battle on the Station, the Sith crashed a shuttle into the module we were in and we were forced to evacuate… he held a collapsing corridor open to let everyone escape. I pulled him through once everyone was clear but it became apparent his injuries were greater than I’d thought. I…’ he bows his head, closes his eyes. ‘I could not save him. I am sorry.’

Atton shrugs. ‘It’s not me you need to apologise to. Though I guess it’s not as if it’ll make much difference to him either way.’

Mical grits his teeth. The faintest hint of anger spills into the Force – it’s the strongest response Atton’s ever gotten from him. He must really be hurting over Bao-Dur’s death.

Annoyingly, he manages to calm himself back down: ‘No. No, it won’t.’ He clasps his hands together before looking up at Atton. ‘Where… where’s Visas, then? With the Exile?’

‘Nope; dead as well,’ he says bluntly. ‘Gutted herself to weaken Nihilus, killed herself when the boss ordered it. Wouldn’t have been salvageable anyway – she did a good job.’

A small, choked noise comes from Mical’s throat. He bows his head again and swallows as a tremor runs through his shoulders. ‘I can only hope she is at peace.’

‘She died following orders and proving her strength. Hard to imagine anything better.’

For a moment Mical looks as if he’s going to protest. Then, as always, he bites his tongue and lets his shoulders sag. It’s pathetic, especially because Atton can _feel_ the disappointment and pain through the Force. ‘I… suppose.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Still. Two apprentices dead before we’ve even left for Malachor V – one by order of the Exile, no less.’

‘You think they made the wrong call?’

He hesitates noticeably before pursing his lips and shaking his head. Around him, the Force contracts, trying to hide in on itself. ‘Nihilus is dead. It’s upsetting, certainly, but –’

‘Would you have done the same, if they’d ordered you to?’

Mical’s jaw works furiously as he avoids looking up at Atton. Eventually, he answers, ‘If it was necessary for the mission to succeed.’

That’s not a _yes_.

Through the Force he can tell it’s not a lie but he can feel that something’s shifted in the scholar’s thinking. He’s not skilled enough to be sure what exactly. Mical is clearly still the same sycophantic little prick he’s always been – he’s still besotted with the Exile as ever, Atton can easily sense that – but something in the deaths of the other apprentices has shaken him more than the last few months of murderous rampaging combined. There’s a hint of determination, somewhere in there, but it’s layered in too much pain for Atton to see too much. Sadly it’s not going to be justification enough to cut the scholar down in cold blood and get away with it so he files the thought away for later and nods, like he’s pleased with the answer.

‘Two deaths is still significant,’ Mical continues, his hands clenched into fists on his knees, ‘and I can’t help but fear we’re flying into the krayt dragon’s jaws.’

It’s the first time Atton’s even come close to agreeing with the man. He’s not about to admit it, though. ‘It’s not like we have a choice.’

( _none of you **ever** had the choice_)

* * *

Once they jump to hyperspace, he figures he’s set. He’ll stay in the cockpit again, just like the flight to Telos and things will be easy. Safe. It’s stupid given what they’re flying away from and what they’re flying into but there’s no point in making the journey dangerous too, right?

Which is why he tries to ignore the buzzing on the edge of his senses when it appears. He runs game after game of pazaak, checks the console switches a dozen times. Eventually, though, his comm chimes: ‘ _Rand. You’re ignoring me. I don’t like it._ ’

He considers pretending his comm’s on mute but figures this is safer than them coming to see him in person. He sighs and answers, ‘Figured you were meditating.’

‘ _I don’t like you lying to me, either._ ’

He fights the urge to roll his eyes. ‘What do you want?’

‘ _Some of the whiskey from under your chair. Port dormitory. Now._ ’

‘Can’t you come get it yourself?’

They sound amused but he can feel a faint hint of annoyance through the Force. ‘ _Don’t make me call it an order._ ’

Atton sighs again and begins rummaging below his seat. ‘It’s an order either way, you know. Anything else Their Royal Majesty wishes of their humble serf while I’m at it?’

A noise of amusement sounds in his ear. ‘ _Don’t make me wait._ ’

He kind of wants to, just to be contrary, but he also wants to be back in the cockpit as soon as possible with his extremities intact, so he settles for a roll of his eyes and the quickest possible route to the port dormitories. He’s careful to not make eye contact with anyone along the way.

The dorm door slides open as he approaches it. Inside the Exile is – to his amazement – sitting on an actual bed instead of kneeling on the floor. Their armour’s resting on a second bunk and they’re clad only in their undershirt and trousers; they’ve just finished removing their boots, their feet still resting on the floor.

He raises the bottle as they look up. ‘One order of the cheapest swill money can buy.’

‘Thought we stole that one.’

‘Never said we were the ones that paid for it.’

They smile and hold out their hand expectantly. ‘Point.’

He passes them the bottle and then nods before turning to leave. Before he can take a single step they speak up: ‘Leaving so soon?’

‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on things in the cockpit.’

‘I’ll ping T3.’

He tries again even as the door hisses shut in front of him: ‘It’s fine, really –’

‘Atton.’ It’s said in a tone that brokers no argument. It’s not an order, but it’s about to be. ‘I said: stay.’

He sighs, only mildly petulantly, and turns around again. ‘What for?’

They raise an eyebrow, unscrewing the bottle. ‘Am I not allowed to enjoy your company?’ They pat the bed beside him and he folds his arms.

‘My head still doesn’t feel right,’ he says shortly. ‘We’ve got no idea what we’re flying towards and we’ve already lost two people – I don’t want to risk making things harder.’

‘You’re making things harder by being so cautious.’ The Exile takes a long pull from the bottle, only grimacing slightly, then pats the bed again. ‘Come. Sit with me. Or kneel if you’re set on being contrary.’

He knows better than to argue and kneels obediently between their legs, leaning forwards to wrap his arms around their waist and rest his head on their lap. It’s… actually kind of nice, if he ignores the cold metal on his knees. Even more so when they begin stroking his hair. He probably should be at least a little bit concerned at that but he can’t really bring himself to care. Things are so much easier if he doesn’t think.

‘After all your complaints during meditation practice, I’m surprised you’d choose to kneel instead of joining me up here,’ they say idly, tracing gentle circles on the back of his head.

He closes his eyes. No matter how many times he feels them he’s always surprised by how soft they are, especially compared to the pilot’s headrest he’s been sleeping on since the last visit to Dantooine. He might even be able to fall asleep like this. ‘I told you – my head isn’t right. Don’t deserve it.’

Their strokes grow firmer, more insistent. Not unpleasant though. ‘So well-behaved. Kind of surprising, especially since it’s not your fault.’

‘Could’ve fought her off. Should’ve killed her on Peragus.’

The Exile chuckles and takes another long pull from the bottle. ‘I don’t think I can argue with you this time. Perhaps those bad feelings of yours are worth listening to after all.’

He pulls himself into them, until their scent fills his senses. ‘I’m not just good for snark, you know.’

‘Assuredly not.’ Their grip shifts and they push at the back of his head – it’s not a full grind, but they’re definitely guiding his face towards their crotch. ‘You have _many_ more uses than colour commentary.’

Ordinarily he’d be fine with such an action – thrilled, even, especially since it’s been close to a fortnight since they’ve been intimate in any form, but he’s not feeling it right now. He lightens his grip and tries to redirect the push to their thigh instead. ‘Share?’ he prompts. He doesn’t really want to drink but it’ll give him a bit of breathing room.

They acquiesce without protest. The whiskey tastes as cheap as it looks; it’s more burn than flavour. He can’t help but pull a face as he passes the bottle back. ‘ _Force_ , that’s awful.’

‘But it was free.’ Unfortunately for him they don’t take another swig. Instead they gesture and he’s sent sliding back across the floor until he’s left kneeling in front of the far set of bunks. His wrists are pulled behind his back by the Force; his ankles are pinned in place just as easily.

The Exile screws the bottle’s lid back in place and easily rises to their feet. There’s a familiar predatory glint in their eyes that normally he loves to see. Not tonight, though.

Atton tenses, tries to play for time. ‘What happened to just sitting with you?’

‘You’re still sitting. I just want a bit _more_.’ They cross to kneel in front of him and lean in to knead his cock through his trousers. ‘It’s been too long for my liking.’

It’s the first time in memory that he hasn’t wanted them to use him. Every time before this, even when he’s been uncomfortable or in pain he’s still at some level been a willing participant – but not this time. Not now. Not flying to Malachor V, not after what Kreia did to him on Dantooine. ‘Red.’

Their eyebrows shoot up. ‘I barely touched you.’

‘Still. Red.’

‘And if I decide otherwise?’

There’s a short, incredibly confusing surge of arousal before his mind catches up with things. He tries to bluff it off with a harsh, ‘Then I might not bother listening the next time you use it,’ but that doesn’t exactly help his situation.

Unfortunately for him they notice it. Or worse, maybe they don’t, and that’s just his own subconscious trying to make things easier for him.

They knead him again, harder this time. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore the physical sensations. It’s easier than he’d like it to be.

‘You didn’t listen on the droid planet.’

‘You didn’t say it then.’

‘Are you sure?’ When another knead doesn’t start make him harden they slide their hand into his pants and start massaging him directly – squeezing, rubbing, tugging, all far more gently than they ordinarily would.

He shakes his head. ‘Would’ve stopped if I had.’

They smile, cruelly. ‘I told you earlier, I don’t like you lying to me.’

‘ _Red_ ,’ Atton repeats, with only a hint of denial. Despite himself he’s starting to get hard. Worse, he’s starting to kind of like it. Apparently the Exile’s not the only one with heretofore undiscovered kinks. Either that or their control runs even deeper than he thought it did. He’s not sure which option’s worse.

Their hand slows, then stills – still sitting comfortably on his half-mast prick – as they lean in to press their forehead against his. ‘Just what exactly do you think she _did_ to you? Made you want to hurt me? That’s not new. I’ve felt you fighting that since the day we met.’

He almost lies, purely out of habit, before he remembers who he’s speaking to, remembers whose hand is on him. ‘Made me want to _kill_ you,’ he answers. Just saying the words makes his cock twitch under their hand.

They squeeze. Not hard; just firmly. ‘Funny; I always thought you were more masochistic than sadistic.’

‘Having been an interrogator? As if. It’s – it’s just you.’ He nudges his nose against theirs, opens the bond a little bit – he doesn’t want this but he wants to make them happy, doesn’t want this but he also kind of does, and for the first time he has an idea of how they might have felt on M4-78. He trusts them but he also doesn’t, not once they get going, because he doesn’t trust _himself_ once he gets going and they’re a hell of a lot less restrained than he is.

He can hope, though. He knows they do care for him in their own twisted way; he just hopes that care extends beyond merely leaving him alive.

The Exile kisses him gently. Their hand starts moving again, strong and purposefully, and he exhales through his teeth as he tries vainly to stay soft. It’s a losing battle and he knows it but damned if he’s not going to try.

‘I love hearing that, you know,’ they say. They circle their thumb over his tip and he grits his teeth as his cock blossoms under their ministrations. ‘But as you said before Telos… you’re mine. Right now I _want_ what’s mine. And since it seems like you’re enjoying it I don’t see much of a reason to stop.’

He tries to pull away from them but there’s nowhere to move to. ‘I said _red_.’

Their other hand grabs the back of his head, pulls him in until their lips are on his ear. ‘And _I_ say that if you truly wanted this to stop, you would _make_ it stop.’

Except he couldn’t and they know it. He _does_ want it to stop, kind of (between their excitement and his own traitorous body it’s hard to say for sure) but he also knows that he can’t say no to them – he’s never been able to say no to them. Briefly he considers pulling out the other safe-word – the no-questions, stop-or-die one the Exile put in place as a final safety measure – but he can’t do it. He should but he can’t. He deserves to suffer, after all. That and he’s not entirely certainly they’d listen to it. He probably – no, _definitely_ wouldn’t have on M4-78; as they likely did then, he’d rather hold onto the illusion that his pain means something to them than definitively learning otherwise.

So Atton pulls ineffectually against their grip and does his best to ignore his rising arousal. It’s… not easy. He doesn’t _hate_ it but he certainly doesn’t _like_ it, either. ‘It’s a bit hard when you’ve got me pinned like this.’

‘I’ve seen you break stronger holds before.’ They release his hair to unbutton his trousers, reveal his cock; Atton bites his lip to stifle an unwilling groan as they lean down to lick at the tip. ‘And you’re nicely hard for me.’

‘You were wet for me on M4-78.’

They swirl the head with their tongue as they slide a hand lower, fondling at his balls. ‘Perhaps making you feel good meant more to me than whether I wanted you to fuck my ass or not.’

His cock twitches reflexively at the memory. Worse, he completely understands that position, and he knows that they _know_ how he feels too.

The Exile smirks and rubs a finger against his perineum. It doesn’t feel bad by any stretch of the imagination but Atton really, _really_ doesn’t like where this is (probably) heading. He debates trying to the safe-word again but it’s pointless – if he does, they’ll push ahead to make him suffer; if he doesn’t, they’ll push ahead because they want to.

They push again and he closes his eyes, trying his best to ignore the heat pooling in his core as they tongue languidly at his slit. The angle means they can’t properly blow him and he’s never been more grateful for it. ‘So, Atton. Does making me feel good mean more to you than whether you want me to fuck you or not?’

Atton grits his teeth. He’s not answering that.

Somehow, it’s still the wrong answer.

The Exile smirks. They free their hand to suck briefly on their own finger before slipping back in to circle his pucker once, twice, then – as he exhales harshly – slip it inside him to the second knuckle. He opens his mouth to protest but they curl against his prostate and instead he gasps aloud.

He’s completely hard now. He fucking _hates_ it.

They finger him slowly, using their other hand to toy with his shaft, deliberately being gentle with him. Any other time it’d be almost torturously glacial but right now it’s more effective than it has any right to be. He has to choke back a whine when they slip a second finger in; it’s not painful, not these days, but the slow and gentle stretching sensation is infuriatingly pleasant. The Exile doesn’t do _anything_ gently, least of all _him_ , and this is a level of sadism he’s not sure he enjoys even if his body disagrees with him.

They start to stroke their fingers against his prostate – one-two, one-two, no rest or pause.

A bead of precum swells at his tip. He can feel a familiar faint warmth building deep in his core, lower than usual, and though he hates it he can’t stop it, only slow it. His cock twitches, eager; for being so hard that he’s starting to struggle to think straight, he’s never been less aroused. Not even their own arousal bleeding over the bond can fully counteract that. Yet he’s not fighting them off, not struggling against them and he doesn’t think he could even if they didn’t have him restrained.

_– something as pathetic as you never stood a chance against their strength –_

An inexplicable surge of fear sends a chill through him: what if he really _doesn’t_ want it and it’s all just them? What if what he thought was just an undiscovered kink is actually the last shreds of his resistance being overridden by their control? What… what if he was right, all along, and everything he’s thought was his own – everything since Peragus – was just Jedi mind-fuckery?

What if they never really cared, but just made him think that they did?

The Exile swaps the one-two pattern for repeated short thrusts. They start pumping his cock harder, faster.

It’s too much. It’s all too much. His fear surges to anger, the anger bleeds into the arousal, the arousal feeds back to his self-loathing and disgust and right here, right now, this is _wrong._ He can’t take it. He needs it to stop. He needs to know that he’s wrong, he needs to _know_ that they’re not just using him, he _needs_ to _know_ that this isn’t just more Jedi lies crawling in his head making his thoughts not his own –

‘ _Please_ ,’ he chokes out. Begging. It’s far from the first time but it’s the first time he’s meant it like this. ‘Red, red, please – _please_ –‘

Their lips pull back in a satisfied grin. They push in again, smooth and gentle, and the jolt it sends through him is equal parts pleasure and pure agony.

He can’t do this. He _can’t do this_.

‘Please. Please, don’t – don’t make – _shit_.’ His heart’s beating fit to burst and his head’s pounding; he has to make this stop and there’s only one way to do it he can think of. If it’s not enough… he doesn’t know what he’ll do. ‘Fuck – surik! _Surik_! I said _surik_!’

They let go of his prick and while they don’t pull out of him they stop thrusting into him, while releasing the Force bonds on his body. It’s more than he expected and _so_ much more than he deserves but at the same time it’s not enough – not now. He’s pathetic. He’s pathetic and he hates it but he can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_ –

A warm hand grips the back of his head, pulls his forehead against their chest. He’s – krif, he’s _shaking_ and he hadn’t even realised it; why is he so pathetic? Why can’t he just push through this for them, why does he need to know, why didn’t he just fight free, why, _why_ –

‘Tell me why.’ There’s no elaboration; their tone is flat and even, midway between disappointment and a strange kind of concern. ‘Atton, tell me why.’

He doesn’t have the words. He’s not sure he ever did, or ever will. He shakes his head frantically ( _what the fuck is **wrong** with you, worm?_) and reaches out with the Force, clawing for that familiar dark echo. This is – this is all too much. He’s _never_ been like this, not since – not since _her_ – and even then not like _this_ – he’s damn near _hyperventilating_ –

The bond envelops him, pulls him into the safe and welcoming dark. A heady mix of emotions greet him (arousal, disappointment, fury, worry, confusion). Then, as they tease through the churning ball of chaos that is his mind, it solidifies: anger. Raw, burning fury. For an awful, awful moment he wants nothing more than to die, but then –

‘Kreia did this to you,’ the Exile hisses. Their fingers clench in Atton’s hair. ‘She didn’t just make you remember… she made you doubt. Made you _fear_.’

…did she? Really? Even though he’d been afraid from the start, even though he’d known something was off from the moment he met them –

‘Atton, you listen to me now.’ They lean down until their cheek rests against the top of his head, trapping him in their embrace. They’re still inside him and he hates it but he’s safe here so he doesn’t, not really, and he hates that even more. ‘Listen to me. Tell me. What are you?’

It takes him three attempts to speak; when he does, his voice is so pathetically weak. ‘Yours.’

They rub their cheek against his head; he can feel their pride through their chest. ‘Yes, that’s right. You are mine. Not a pawn, not a lackey, not a follower, not a tool – _mine_. You are mine _because_ I do not have to control you to know you will do as I say. You are mine _because_ I do not have to control you to know that you will not kill me.’

Do not have to, not does not. Does the distinction matter? Did it ever matter? His mind is fragmenting again, pulled in a thousand different directions and he hates it, he hates himself, he hates _them,_ he hates _everything_.

‘I have _never_ controlled you,’ they say. ‘Never. Every sick and broken thing you’ve done has always been _you_. It’s why you are mine.’

Only a Sith deals in absolutes. Even the purest of Jedi lie. They’re a wound in the Force and everything about them is wrong; he’s been fragmenting from the day they met and he just doesn’t _know_ anymore.

They’re still inside him, unmoving. He’s long since gone soft. ‘Atton, tell me what you want.’

He says the only thing he knows is true: ‘You.’

‘I’m right here. I’m not moving. What else do you want?’

To make them happy. To know that it was his choice to make them happy. To know that it was his choice at all, full stop.

The Exile beings to stroke the back of his head, soft and gentle. The anger through the bond has receded now; it’s still there, a red-hot core of fury, but it’s not because of him and he can feel that so he knows it’s true. Then the link – mutes, somehow – as if they’re the next system over instead of holding him. He can still feel them but it’s… removed. A one-way path from him to them with nothing coming back. It’s confusing, _so_ confusing, but only until they speak again.

‘Tell me what _you_ want.’ It’s an order but it isn’t; it’s not a request, but it is.

Atton pushes as deep into their embrace as he can, crushes his eyes shut until everything he knows is them: their warmth, their body, their scent, their voice. ‘Keep you safe. Make you happy.’

‘And how do you want to make me happy?’

He is a pathetic, grovelling worm begging for mercy from the merciless. He is a broken, slavering beast held in check by the flimsiest of chains. He is a Jedi built to kill Jedi, a torturer that loves to suffer. He is a two-time deserter and loyal to the death. He is broken but he can still break further, and in the shards he may yet find salvation. Or, at the very least, a place where he doesn’t care anymore.

He breathes them in and consigns himself to the flames. ‘Use me. Make – make you happy.’ Then, before he can hesitate and ruin things entirely: ‘Green.’

They plant a single, far too gentle kiss on the top of his head. The Force grip returns to his ankles and wrists – a convenient excuse; he didn’t move even when they were released. Then their fingers begin to move again.

Atton keeps his eyes closed. It’s easier this way.

‘Good,’ the Exile says soothingly. They tuck his head beneath their chin and return their other hand to his cock. He’s still soft and his head is still a mess but if he focuses on the sharpness of their jaw, the scent of their undershirt, the beat of their heart he can ground himself. Just a little bit. ‘Should I open the bond again so you can feel how much you’re pleasing me, or would you prefer to prove to yourself that this is your choice?’

He hates that neither of those options will stop this. He’s immeasurably grateful for being asked at all.

The warmth in his core is starting to coil up again as their hands fall into a rhythm and he shakes his head – ‘Don’t know.’

‘Hn. Tell me if you do.’ Their thumb traces a swirl over his head, a poor facsimile of their tongue, but even if his mind is broken his body still remembers what had been happening; he’s growing hard again. He should hate it more than he does but it’s _different_ now, now that he knows they (kind of, mostly) will stop if he _really_ asks and it (mostly, maybe) wasn’t really his fault he freaked out.

They shift their arm a little, slide in a little deeper, and he muffles a groan into their chest. It disgusts him. _He_ disgusts him. What have they ever seen in him to make him attractive to them?

The Exile starts up the one-two stroking again. His hips are starting to rock of their own accord and he’s never hated himself more but – but they’re happy, they’re _enjoying_ this, he’s only hating it because Kreia made him doubt and he can do it for them. He can do _anything_ if it’s for them. Even if he’s never wanted anything less in his life.

Atton grits his teeth again and pushes into their chest until it almost hurts his face.

‘You’re perfect like this,’ the Exile murmurs. ‘So _perfect_. You do this for me, Atton – you do this for me.’

With a muffled whimper he starts pushing against them. It’ll be over faster this way, even if every buck makes him hate himself just that bit more. Not them, never them –

( ** _always_** _them_ )

He can’t do this. He has to do it, he can’t do anything else but _stars_ –

The Exile shifts their chin, twists to kiss his hair, his ear. ‘That’s it. You’re almost there. So close, Atton; you’re doing so _well_.’

Everything hurts except his body. Everything burns except the one part of him that should be. He’s panting again and he still hates it but he’s safe; they’d stop if he asked them to; he won’t but he _could_ and he’s so, so close and he _hates_ it.

Their fingers slide in to the hilt and they switch back to thrusting – harder this time. Harsher. Their pumps grow stronger, firmer, sharper.

He knows this. This is familiar. This is _safe_. This is _his choice_.

( _it was **never** your choice, fool –_)

‘Please,’ he gasps into their chest, his eyes still screwed shut, ‘ _please_ , I’m – harder – _hurt_ – please…’

They push a third finger in without hesitation, drive their chin into the back of his skull as their hard pumps meet his desperate thrusts. ‘For you. Now come for me. Show me why you’re mine.’

His core feels like it’s exploding. He can _hear_ the void of space. His thrusts grow erratic, his whimpered panting frantic and he can do this, he’s never wanted to come less in his life but he can _do this_ –

With a flash of white and a wave of unwilling pleasure he drives himself down and cries out into their chest as he comes. It’s not the first time he’s come like this – deeper, more primal, more violently, them inside him – but this time it’s still different somehow. Like he’s outside his body looking in even as he comes apart at the seams, as his cock spurts and throws ropes of sticky white cum over them both. It feels good, _so_ good, he _loves_ coming like this but this time he hates it and himself and _everything_.

He still rides them to the end of it, until his body stops trembling, until he’s panting open-mouthed into their chest. His cock’s still hard in their fist, they’re still three fingers deep in him and he hates it –

‘You’re so good, Atton,’ the Exile croons, rocking him to the end. ‘ _So_ good for me. So good.’

He loves them, more than anything ever in his life, and he hates himself for that even more.

They slide out of him so gently that he doesn’t even wince; the physical afterglow is too strong. It always is when he comes like this. Normally he enjoys finishing like this – it’s deeper but it’s not a true finish; he’s still hard, still able to come again, still ready to go – but this time he hates it _because_ he’s still hard, still able to come again, still ready to go. They’re still pumping him, their fist slick with his cum, and for the life of him he can’t tell if he wants to throw himself away from them and never let them touch him again or if he wants to pin them to the floor and make them scream his name until their voice gives out.

They wipe their fingers on somebody’s clothes (he’s well past caring whose) and pull him into a strong, safe embrace, dissolving the Force binds on him with barely a thought. ‘What do you want?’ they ask. He can’t figure out what they’re really asking him and he panics, for a moment, before realising that there’s no hidden question – they’re speaking at face value, for once.

He still doesn’t know what he wants; he’s not sure he ever did. He speaks anyway. ‘To… to make you happy,’ he groans, nuzzling into their chest. He can hear their heartbeat – so fast, so eager. He wants to hide in the cockpit, to never see them again, to never leave this dorm, to take them anywhere but Malachor V. ‘Make… make you come, how you want. Eat you. Fuck you. What… whatever. Tell me –’

‘No. Tell _me_.’

He’s slick with his own cum, still hard in their fist. They’re pulling him into them so hard it must hurt them as much as it hurts him. He hates everything they’ve done to him, everything they are but he has never, ever loved anything as much as he loves them.

If this is salvation, he’s never been so glad to be damned. Or maybe this is just another kind of hell, just one closer to actually making him suffer than he’s used to.

He doesn’t know what he wants but he knows what they like: him, hard and deep, slick from their shared juices. That much, he can do. Try to do. For once he doesn’t care if they don’t finish before he’s spent.

He throws them onto their back, grabbing for their trousers with animalistic urgency. ‘Make you _scream_ ,’ he manages to grunt, a spark of real enthusiasm running through him as he drags the clothing down. He doesn’t have the patience or control to fully strip them and he leaves the pants at their knees; instead of spreading them he shoves their legs back, doubling them over.

Their underwear is already soaked. It’s almost infuriating.

He drags it aside, not caring if he scratches them as he goes, and drives into their cunt like he did their ass on M4-78: to the hilt, almost _past_ the hilt, hard enough to hurt them both. The remnants of his cum are shoved deep and the noise they make is equal parts moan and cry – _this_ , he loves. No question. He still hates that he’s hard, still hates that they made him this way but he loves seeing them like this. He loves seeing them come apart beneath him.

He’s theirs, always theirs. And they’re _his_ … at least right now.

He thrusts hard, fast, not caring if they’re enjoying it or not. He’s not enjoying it, not like he normally would. It feels good – _krif_ , it feels good – but not like it should. Not like it normally does, in his head as well as his body. Not like when he’s wanted it.

They still buck beneath him, still push back to meet each and every one of his thrusts. They pant and groan and cry out just like they did the first time, just like they have every time he’s fucked them so hard. They’re like him – they like it rough. They like to hurt. They like the _proof_.

Atton grips their ankles like he would their neck and pounds into them as if he’ll break them. He won’t get a safe-word out of them, not like this, but he wants them to hurt too. Not like he does – they want this too badly – but something. _Anything_. He’ll take anything. Just as long as they hurt.

He doesn’t know where a knife is so he scratches, hits, _bites_ at them, at whatever expanse of flesh he can reach. He sinks his teeth into the muscle of their calves. He digs his fingernails into their thighs, into their arms and drags bloody furrows down their limbs. Heavy blows rain down on their sex, their body, their face.

Without their presence over the bond he only has their physical reactions to work off. In the back of his mind he still knows they like it but he can’t feel that, not this time. The way they’re shrieking and squirming and writhing reminds him of the old days under Revan, when the only pleasure he cared about was his own, when the pain he inflicted was just that – pain – and this time he doesn’t feel guilty for liking it. He doesn’t hear that whisper reminding him that he’s not truly a monster because he’s not, not this time. He doesn’t care whether it was the old witch’s manipulations or if it’s just the response to what he just had to endure: he doesn’t want this, but he’ll make himself enjoy it anyway.

It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t really want this. It’s the only way he’s lasted this long at all.

As their cries become breathless and their motions erratic he drags their pants to their ankles, enough that he can split their legs to get a hand through to wrap around their throat. Without the bond open he can almost believe he’s the only one that likes it. He crushes down hard enough to bruise and holds it, delighting in the ineffectual scrabble of their hands against his grip, the fleeting moments of panic he catches in their eyes, the way they can’t even make a _sound_ beneath his grip.

Their eyes roll back in their head as their body spasms beneath him. He could think they were dying if he couldn’t feel the rhythmic clenching of their walls around his cock. He has just enough time to almost be annoyed that he made them come before the bond is thrown open again, _wide_ open, and the orgasmic wave of pleasure that floods out pushes him over the edge in a heartbeat.

He grits his teeth and pulls out with a snarl; his cum splatters over their slit, their lips, their mound as he haphazardly jerks himself to completion over their twitching body. There’s less than usual thanks to his earlier orgasm but still enough to make a nice mess. The Exile much prefers him to finish inside them – equal parts some kind of minor fetish and the fact that it makes clean-up much easier – but he’s feeling more spiteful than selfish right now. It’s not like he wanted any of this in the first place either, so he doesn’t give a shit that his hand is less satisfying than their body.

The Exile drags their trousers off entirely before wrapping their legs around him, pulling him down to lie on top of them. Their arms are around him before he’s fully wound down – not that it matters; he couldn’t fight them before and all today’s proven is that he’s even more pathetic than he thought he was – so he does his best to burrow into their chest and make out that he’s fine with it all.

He _is_ fine with it all. Really, he is. It’s – it’s just the last remnants of Kreia’s machinations leaving him. The Exile wanted this, so he wanted this, deep down. He usually loves it when they make him do things he hates, doesn’t he? If he thinks about it this was just more of the same. Even with the near panic attack and searing disgust and how unsatisfying his satisfaction was. It’s all a pathetic worm like him deserves.

Just the last remnants of the old witch’s machinations leaving him. He’s fine with it. He’s _choosing_ to be fine with it.

( _and here you were, thinking you were good at finding out the truth of things_ )

‘Good job,’ the Exile murmurs, their breathing still heavy. They entwine their fingers gently in his hair. ‘ _Such_ a good job. Where’s your head at?’

He still doesn’t know. He hadn’t been fine with anything until they told him to be, until they made him choose to be. Was it still his choice if there was no real other option? Was it still his choice if he was led to it?

 _Stars_ , his head hurts. His head hurts, his body hurts, his _soul_ hurts. For the thousandth time he curses the old witch and her manipulations. In the same breath he curses the Exile and their power, curses himself and his patheticness.

It’s the first time he’s ever truly regretted deserting the Sith forces. Getting turned into a Dark Jedi under Revan would at least have only hurt his body.

Atton takes a shuddering breath. ‘On my shoulders. Where else?’

‘You sure about that?’

See – they _do_ care about him.

( _but was that you who thought that?_ )

Choosing to ignore _those_ thoughts, at least, he knows is his own choice.

‘Mostly,’ he says, dragging his attention back to the world of the physical: the discomfort of the cold metal floor, the sweat-damp cling of his clothing, the warmth of the body underneath him. ‘I – yeah. Yeah. If it isn’t, it will be.’

Things are so much easier when he doesn’t think about them. He can’t hate something that isn’t on his mind, after all.

If the Exile senses anything’s amiss, they ignore it: ‘Excellent. Overcoming such deep Force manipulations is no easy feat; you’ve done well to claw back your mind so thoroughly.’

Atton thinks of pazaak, and hyperspace routes, and not a single damn thing beyond the immediate sensations in his body. Things that he knows without a shadow of a doubt are truly real, truly his own.

They stroke his hair one more time then tap his shoulder: time to get up. ‘Join me in the bunk once you’re done with the ‘fresher. I want you rested before Malachor.’ Before he can protest they continue, ‘You don’t have to stay the entire duration, if you’re _that_ concerned about the ship. You can rise once I am asleep. As you said, though, we don’t know what we’re flying into… and I find I fall asleep far more easily when you are present.’

He pushes up without kissing them (though he still has to fight the urge to), and though his head’s still a mess his stomach churns reflexively. The Exile _never_ admits anything even close to weakness – hell, this whole relationship had to start with him choking them and telling them to kill him – but over the months he’s become adept at reading between the lines.

They aren’t confident they’re making it off Malachor alive.

It isn’t until they’re both back in the bunk, the Exile wrapped safely in his arms and soundly asleep, that Atton permits himself to wonder how he feels about the impending confrontation. Specifically, the fact that the Exile is so unconvinced of their success that they admitted to not only wanting to spend as much of the journey with Atton as they could, but that it was potentially affecting their sleep too.

He’s not an idiot. For all their power he is acutely aware that the Exile is as mortal as he is; he’s seen them bleed plenty of times. He’s felt them fear for their life just the way he does. He’s seen them in ecstasy, in agony, in glee and anger – deep down beneath the black robes and fearsome countenance they’re still human. He just… hadn’t fully believed it, until now.

He watches their chest rise and fall in time with their breathing. They look almost peaceful when they’re asleep – lips ever so slightly parted, expression relaxed, a single wisp of hair trailing down across their cheek (he tucks it back behind their ear without even thinking twice). Not peaceful – content. Safe. Even after all that’s happened in the last few weeks they still trust him with their life. They still turn to him for stability and security, even after all they’ve put him through. All they’ve done to him.

Once upon a time this was exactly the kind of thing he’d daydreamed about doing with them: falling asleep together, after a night of passionate sex.

Now Atton lies awake, watches them sleep after the worst sexual experience of his life, and tries to figure out whether he wants them to die at Malachor or not.

(It’s not even a question, though he so very badly wishes it was. They have to live. He has to protect them. They’re all that he has.)

* * *

Much later, once he’s certain the Exile is well and truly asleep, Atton rises from the bunk and heads toward the medbay. Mical is meditating in the starboard dorms (no doubt in some twisted homage to the fallen apprentices, he notes with distaste) so he has his run of the place. It doesn’t take him long to find what he needs: two baseline medpacks, several tranquilser darts nobody’s bothered to learn how to use, the heaviest sedatives they have and then a few doses of painkillers just to be sure.

It takes him only a few minutes to replace the contents of the medpacks with his cobbled-together anaesthetic mix. Unlike back on M4-78 he doesn’t have to disarm explosives or condense aerated gases to liquid form; everything gels together nicely with minimal effort. The waste is carefully shoved down to the bottom of the bin and he’s back in the cockpit not even fifteen minutes after leaving the port dorms.

Then he waits, as the chrono counts down to their arrival, playing pazaak against himself.

* * *

He doesn’t warn the ship when they drop out of hyperspace. He doesn’t think he needs to; he chose an exit point well outside the debris field that surrounds the collapsed planetoid so there’ll be plenty of time to rouse folks before they decide on a landing point. Except barely two seconds after the jump’s finished, the console starts lighting up with more warnings than he’s ever seen – _including_ the time they were almost shot down over Dxun. He has just enough time to be confused before the ship starts lurching and then there’s no time for alerts, spoken or otherwise, because his whole attention is occupied with keeping the _Ebon Hawk_ from becoming part of the graveyard of ships and planet chunks.

‘What’s happening?’ the Exile yells, barrelling into the cockpit with their robes only half-on. The ship jolts to the side and they’re sent stumbling into the back of the co-pilot’s seat.

‘The gravity of the whole area’s off,’ he snarls, as he futilely fights against the controls. ‘Whatever the hell the Mass Shadow Generator did, it’s left one hell of a mess – it’s like the whole area’s littered with miniature grav-wells. The systems don’t know how to handle it. I’ve got the port wing reading at zero point seven Gs while the starboard’s reporting eight; half a klik ago we went from zero to two all over without _any_ gradual increase –’

‘Can you get us down safely?’

His answer is drowned out in a metallic shriek as something tears across the _Ebon Hawk_ ’s frame; alarms start to blare from the console and Atton curses aloud as another jerk causes him to miss hitting a switch. ‘If gravity _works_ there, _maybe_ –’

The whole ship shudders and drops, like a rock into a pond, as the local gravity shifts yet again and the ship’s automated systems do their best to cope with a situation that falls so far outside their programming it’s not funny.

The Exile claws their way into the co-pilot’s seat, straps themselves down with gritted teeth. As Atton struggles to take manual control of the entire ship they hammer their comm: ‘Status, anyone?’

‘ _Concerned statement: The workshop’s atmosphere is at eighty percent and dropping,_ ’ HK reports. ‘ _No obvious leak. Sealing blast doors now._ ’

Atton hauls the yoke back and manages to arrest their fall, somewhat; the artificial gravity system has either burned out or shut down to prevent damaging itself as he can feel himself floating against the seat’s harness. The surface of Malachor is both far too close and way too far away – it’s near-impossible to tell what has enough gravity to be construed as “ground”. He’s about to shout for T3 to take over the non-essential systems when another metallic groan sounds, followed by an unimaginably loud _crash_.

‘ _We’ve lost the underbelly turret_!’ Mandalore yells.

‘ _Extremely concerned addendum: The workshop wall is failing! Atmosphere at thirty-two percent!_ ’

Mical chimes in, panicked: ‘ _I can see sparks in the engine bay; no fire but I think it’s starting to smoke –_ ‘

The ship shudders again, hard, and Atton’s stomach flips as another gravity-well disappears beneath them. If he pulls the yoke any harder he’s going to rip it out.

The Exile grips the armrests strongly enough to turn their knuckles white. ‘All personnel, strap in and prepare for a rough landing. Shields on, respirators on, barriers up –‘

The starboard wing clips an outcropping of rock, sending the whole ship into an uncontrolled barrel-roll, and Atton has only just enough time to activate his own shields before another sickening _crunch_ sounds and everything goes black.

* * *

Thirty seconds or several hours later, his eyes blink open again. The cockpit window’s intact, which is surprising, but when all he hears is rumbling thunder and cracks of lightning he realises things have officially gone from bad to worse. The console is completely dead – no lights, no alarms – and there’s only a faint hissing noise coming from his commlink.

He jerks his head around, half terrified that everything is already lost; he lets himself breathe again when his gaze alights on the Exile. They’re still unconscious from the looks of it, slumped against the seat harness, but they’re undeniably alive. Uninjured too, at least from anything he can see.

With a wince Atton releases the straps around his chest (he’s definitely going to have bruises from that). ‘Hey. Hey. Can you hear me?’

They don’t respond.

He thumbs his comm: ‘Who’s still breathing?’

For a few seconds nobody replies and he thinks that maybe they’re all dead. Then a crackle sounds: ‘ _Mandalore here. Breathing, bit sore, nothing a few medpacks won’t fix._ ’

‘ _Statement: I was never breathing, but my processors are still running._ ’ A brief burst of static sounds. ‘ _Correction: Most of my processors are still running. Nothing irreparable. The workshop wall, unfortunately, will require significant work before it is spaceworthy again._ ’

A brief spurt of binary sounds – T3. From what Atton can gather, the hyperdrive somehow survived but the atmospheric engine isn’t going to be taking them anywhere until repairs are made.

Much to his annoyance, Mical also speaks up (though he does take some satisfaction from the grogginess of the man’s voice). ‘ _Conscious, breathing, and outside the ship. It’s… it’s bad._ ’

‘No krif,’ Atton grunts, as he releases the straps around his chest. ‘Give it to us straight.’

Mical exhales heavily. ‘ _We’re wedged between two pillars of rock, over what looks like a bottomless canyon. The only way we’re freeing the_ Ebon Hawk _without losing her is flying out of here, but if the engines are even half a bad as they look from the outside, that’s not happening anytime soon._ ’ His tone grows hesitant, careful: ‘ _What of the Exile?_ ’

Atton glances over. They’re stirring, slightly, but still not conscious; he reaches over to remove their commlink from their ear. ‘They’re here with me. Alive, just a bit out of it still. I’ll get them out. Where’s Goto?’

‘ _Statement: The fat one was last seen exiting the ship at a rapid pace. Conjecture: It probably wished to investigate the remnants of the Mass Shadow Generator first-hand._ ’

Atton pinches the bridge of his nose – a rogue droid is the last thing they need right now. ‘Right. HK – take some of the 51s and see if you can’t find it, set the others to work repairing the bay wall. T3, start working on the engines. Mandalore, Mical –’

‘ _I’m going after Kreia._ ’

It’s not entirely a surprise. He still grits his teeth anyway. ‘Not until the Exile’s ready.’

The scholar doesn’t reply. Instead, the commlink chimes with the sound of a dropped signal: he’s killed the connection.

Atton’s always been a good liar. There’s no point to lying now though, so instead he lets himself smile.

Mandalore grunts, ‘ _Should I hunt him down?_ ’

‘Nah, don’t worry about it. See what you can do about getting the _Hawk_ free of this place – repairs are repairs but they’re worthless if we can’t lift off in the first place.’ He looks to the Exile again; they’re not quite conscious yet but definitely getting close. ‘I’ll deal with him. Don’t worry; I’ll be sure to ping you if I need assistance.’

Mandalore chuckles. ‘ _All right – I’ll see what I can do. Do be sure to let me know when the fun starts._ ’

‘Of course.’ He takes his finger off the button, focuses his attention on the stirring Exile. They’re still not entirely awake so he doesn’t try to talk to them. Instead, he undoes their restraints, runs his fingers through their hair. Even after all they’ve done to him he can’t help but find them beautiful – he loves it and hates it in equal measure. At the moment, at least, he knows exactly what his next steps are.

Their eyelids flutter open. Their gaze is hazy, unfocussed; a mild concussion maybe, but nothing that a brief bout of Force healing won’t resolve. ‘What – what, where –’

‘Easy, now,’ he says gently, moving his hands to their shoulders. They grip his wrists reflexively. ‘We’re okay. Bit of a bad landing but we’re okay.’

They squeeze their eyes shut. The Force thrums, briefly, and when their eyes open again they’re clear. ‘Good. Knew you could do it.’ They start gingerly rising to their feet, pulling against him only a little bit. ‘Anyone dead? Dismantled?’

When he was assembling the knockout packs he’d planned to keep them in reserve for the eventual confrontation with Kreia – Trayus, rather. He’d planned to use one on the old witch to give the Exile time to confirm the bond was gone; the second one was to give them time to plan out exactly how they would take her apart, make her suffer for all she’d done.

To be fair, he learned a very long time ago that any kind of detailed plan tended to fall apart once Jedi came into the mix. At least he’s always been good at improvising.

‘Not yet,’ he says. One hand grips their forearm; the other places a modified medpack against their side. ‘Hey – I love you, you know? Sleep well.’

They have just enough time to look surprised before the drugs kick in, then they collapse bonelessly against him.

Atton plants a soft kiss on the top of their head before scooping their limp form into his arms. He’s sure that the pack isn’t strong enough to kill them – even back on Peragus they could shrug off lethal doses; these days he’d be amazed if anything short of the entire ship’s supply even gave them a mild hangover – so he’s not worried that there’ll be any lingering side-effects. They’ll be furious with him of course, for both the drugging and telling them he loves them, but he can live with that. Assuming he lives at all.

He’s no idiot. He’s well aware that the only person Kreia will permit to kill her is the Exile. He’s equally aware that Kreia is powerful, but still mortal, and that Mical is only half the idiot that he pretends to be.

So he dodges Mandalore and T3 to lay the Exile on the ground by the exit ramp, gives one final stroke to their brow, then sets off across the broken surface of Malachor V.

He’s got a Jedi to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record: in this story, at this point, Atton doesn't know the meaning of Surik. He doesn't know it's part of the Exile's old name - he just knows it's the safe-word they put in place. Not its significance. Hence the strange capitalisation.
> 
> I also intended the sexual aspect of this chapter to be more of a classic "no but really yes" scenario but Atton just wasn't into it. It ended up getting a lot darker and psychological than I thought it would (to the point of changing the ending even) but overall the rating's still the same. It's not explicit noncon - Atton is too devoted to the Exile to be willing to actually say no - but it's as close as he'll ever get to saying "no" to them. At least while he's still got some control over himself.
> 
> In terms of what is Atton's choice versus what's the bond/Exile's influence... it's debateable. He's not sure himself; I'm not entirely sure either. I view this Exile as not deliberately controlling/influencing him because they love the rush that comes from knowing he's acting of his own sick desires (as opposed to theirs) but at the subconscious level it's a bit harder to say. In either case... this chapter's broken something for good, and it's the start of his last slide to the end. Some things can't be taken back or forgotten.


End file.
